


-Pistols at Dawn- {AC:Unity/Rogue}

by KeyBearer



Series: Elysia's Story [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Assassin's Creed (Video Game), Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed III: Liberation, Assassin's Creed: Rogue, Assassin's Creed: Unity, F/F, F/M, Gen, Legend of Zelda References, M/M, Rogue|Unity|AC3|AC:Liberation, its gonna be one big mess, there will be smut, ubisoft cant do its job so im doing it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-24 21:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 160,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyBearer/pseuds/KeyBearer
Summary: The streets are barricaded, the population is in a riot, and the crowds scream for justice; a French Revolution takes no prisoners, not even for a young Arno Dorian. How does a revengeful boy grow up in the household of a Templar father and his prodigy of a daughter, Élise de la Serre? Fairly well, until a certain point. Arno ages, his goal is firm, yet he misses an important element to fend off a dangerous foe that revisits these rebelling streets.Shay Cormac is a menace unlike any other, has dismantled the American Brotherhoods single-handedly and unashamedly. No man nor woman had been successful on stopping his moralistic onslaught of righteousness, but who is to say who is right and who is wrong in a city that is so willingly turning itself from the ground up?The Parisian Brotherhood is filled with humans that believe themselves to be redeemers, avengers and saviors, and Arno is the prime example of that. Humans are so fickle and predictable, they don’t know what they’re getting themselves into, they don’t know the Twilight storm that is brewing underneath their very feet.Who would be the mentor to straighten this boy in a world he was never ready for it?Who better than a Fox?





	1. The Martyr

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, it’s been some time. Before we start, let’s go over a couple of things that are kinda important.
> 
> If you read the tags, you know where this is going, and who’s getting involved. A lot of events and a lot of characters are going to be smashed in here, and if all goes accordingly we’re all going to have a great time. Keep in mind, Ubisoft had the resources to involve so many characters at once, and since they didn’t abuse that, I’M GOING TO DO IT AND DO A BETTER JOB.
> 
> Yeah, Unity sucked. A lot (AC lore is embedded in my skull so much at this point, I’ve had to scrap something out of its mishandled plot and characters). Like it almost destroyed the company, but you know what, I’ll give Arno a fighting chance and see if we can actually make a decent character out of him. The stage is set, and all that’s left is to write it out, and with the help of my equally-story-starving-cowriters, we’re going to make it happen for this last installment of Elysia’s story.
> 
> Also note, a lot of politics, a lot of viewpoints and the like are going to be implemented here, and it’s……you know, its funny how history repeats itself, especially with what’s happening right now in the world. Anyways, it’s important to note that, because a lot of fucked up shit happened in the French Revolution and we’re going to talk about it (ialsoputamaturetagSOOOO). A ton of suppression, a lot of screwed up philosophy and views, we’re going to be going into the nitty gritty of it and see how our characters are going to react to the setting around them.
> 
> WITHOUT FURTHER INTERRUPTIONS, we’re glad to have you back! Enjoy this first chapter :U Until then, see ya soon kids. Momma missed ya.
> 
> -Keys
> 
> P.S. I don't know French so italicized FULL sentences in "quotes" will mean it's spoken in French.
> 
> See the end notes for the schedule.

**Can you redeem a monster’s soul?**

Because, if you really think about it, any one individual is capable of it; we’re naturally born to do heartless things, or why else would society put so much constraint in keeping command? Of reminding us to not tear flowers, learn how to share and be kind to one another, to face problems logically rather than emotionally? The unrelenting reminders follow you throughout the years, and it becomes ritual to remember them, to remember what is the right way to behave.

To behave _well_.

Humans are fickle, and their environments alter them no matter how good they are. You can be surrounded by the most versatile, caring and good-willed people this planet Earth had the capacity to procure, and think all is well and no one will ever disappoint you.

_Yet._

All it takes is one little shove, one little glimmer of curiosity of satisfying that little squirm in your spine to see _what happens if I do this_? _What happens if I let people decide what’s good for them, where there are no rules, no laws, no bounds?_

And the Creed tested that theory to its limit, because they were foolish enough to believe humans knew how to operate in such a big playground.

_They never learn, do they?_

No, they don’t.

They’ll keep pushing that agenda, over and over and over again. Like a little game. Humans souls were the pieces on a checkerboard, where leaps were bountiful and large, small and meaningful. Every move counted to battle against this luring endgame no one knew about, and no one dared to question because existence and existing is already a challenge.

Because, really, _Humans don’t learn do they?_

Shay Patrick Cormac knew they didn’t. He knew many things. Vastly. An atlas for a substantial mind, and stony palms that experienced many things.

Deadly things.

Things so vile and horrendous, no sane human would have been able to make this far in life like he has; to accept how deep their infinite grave had been dug, and be so willing to lay in it the same way one sleeps in their own bed.

And he’s made it _far_. He’s going to hit his sixties soon, but not even age cripples him nor his mind.

Shay wouldn’t call himself a monster, but how else do you fight monsters without being one?

It’s a sad tale, but one that needs to be told. He doesn’t like to reminisce about it if you asked him however, even if you knew him for decades. His mind is an arrow, it goes in one direction and will penetrate any inconvenience (he built his existence to be as such). That’s how he’s kept himself alive after all these years, these _decades_.

But he’ll have days where he doesn’t mind telling the tall tale of how he was an assassin once; rare days indeed. He’ll sit down, and get this dark look in his bottomless, russet irises. The creases along his eyes increase in depth when he angles his head to the right side and down, This way, his black-gloved fingers can scour at the scar lining up to the edge of his right eye that then leaps up to sever through his eyebrow; it makes a soft stop near the sharp hairline at the center of his forehead. It’s habit when he does it, recollecting how he got it for a mere second before remembering that he was caged to share the details of how it came to be. He’s a quiet man, reserved and thoughtful; it’s not that he’s afraid to share, more so he lived through his memory bank so many times he forgets where he is when he’s in public and in the present. He’s more of himself when he’s alone, engaged in his thoughts where he can bombard himself with his own questions and debate his answers.

It keeps him human, or what’s left of it.

“I was an assassin at a young age,” he whispers solemnly, like it’s painful to say. He hitches his breath, takes a moment to fix his digits so they’re spread apart evenly on his large thigh. He treks through the cobwebs of his mind, all functional and working to preserve all that had happened in his life since the very moment he sat down to tell his biography. He fiddles with his crimson, cross insignia that rests so close to his chest that his almost, silent heartbeat lives in it (because he lost his heart so long ago). He looks to the lone, robust man before him, who sits casually but attentive to his words. He hardly hears Shay’s story in full, only able to gather pieces before Shay stops himself to speak anymore.

He’ll occasionally and smoothly move the conversation to a mission to be done…but not this time.

Shay straightens his back, tilting his head where his lids close halfway on his orbs, and his thick, Irish accent trails down his tongue, “I was a young lad, that wanted to make the world a better place. I had potential, and I had the means and the skills to do what I wanted. But….I had many questions. I questioned everything, and the Creed did not like that.”

He inhales, reminding his aged lungs they need to breathe to keep him going. He runs his fingers down his cheek to the scruff of his bread he didn’t bother to shave this morning. It creates a fuzzy plane to frame his face, and sprinkles along his jaw.

“Hundreds, thousands. The number was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, and it’s something I don’t wish upon anyone else; I did what I needed to do, and went against the Assassin code. My reward was a bullet to the back. But that was not the end.”

He suppresses their names, but their faces vividly invade his sight, whether his eyes be closed or opened. He shakes his head, listens to his head pound, and the soft crackle of the fireplace lost in the room.

“I’m listening.”

“I went after each person who had wronged me, and ended their lives. One by one. It needed to be done, or else the cycle was going to repeat, you see. The Creed needed Order, and that’s what I gifted them.” He has this twitch, where he expands his fingers on the table, pressing the tips against the wood to affirm his focus. His middle finger scratches at the old, refined bark, wondering momentarily how old the tree was before it was cut down. “I’m an older man, the world is changing. Yet, the work I’ve commenced is not done.”

And he stops here, unexpectedly. He can’t take anymore, and shifts the atmosphere of the room almost abruptly.

“I must make haste, and go.” There is an agreed silence, and Shay smiles weakly at the nod that follows. He exploits the feeling of his rolling spine when he stands up properly to address himself, reminding him of his mortality and the time he no longer had, “I leave at dawn.” And for a moment, he envisioned their faces again.

All of their faces.

Before he had cut them down, and sent them to their early graves. Of what could’ve been if only…if only they had listened to him. _If only they had learned_.

“Safe travels, father,” the lone man replies, lifting the corner of his lips up. “May the Father of Understanding guide you.”

Connor Kenway was right on him.

On Shay’s clashing and troublesome plans. He searched for the rogue, countless years, so much time spent on trailing after his crumbs left on his attempted erasure of the American Brotherhood. He almost did it all on his own, unmerciful and relentless to leave a message to those who threatened to oversee his philosophy.

But it never started out that way.

History, time and misfortunes can alter any man. Connor himself was no different, and it took time for him to notice that Shay was the same. Both men with the promise of something much bigger than themselves, and both diverged into disconnecting paths.

Yet, they were fated to meet again. Again, and again and again; crossing rivers and hills in haste of this man. May it be a punch, a kick, a mere mean look, but Connor was always where Shay would be. Perhaps he had under estimated Achilles's warning, or thought that Shay would beset to his autumn years. Nevertheless, Connor vowed he would do what needed to be done: he was going to follow Shay to the ends of the Earth.

And today was no different.

Through the wake of destruction, he had left behind at Fort Roschel, leaving behind his 'calling card'. A boy as young as Connor once was had been arriving at the old man's door, left to wallow amongst the countless corpses of his brothers and sisters.

_“He slaughtered them all!”_

_“How did you get away?”_

_“H-He let me go, on purpose. He must know I-I would go for help…”_

_“Which way did he go?”_

Shay will pay.

But fate had other plans.

Connor halts at the port, a grimace capturing his stern face. Red sails flew against the setting sun, blistering in its embrace and mocking him of his failure.

The Morrigan sails once more, Shay evading capture again.

“You’re late, Connor.”

He looks to his right, seeing an older, neatly uniformed woman standing with her hands on her hips. Her tan eyes scan the horizon, eying the escaping vessel and the crew she had also been chasing. She exhales, letting the wind grapple and twist her dark curls that protruded out of her tricorne hat. Her gloved fingers drum once, and she pushes her balance on her right leg to make her hip slant with confidence in a contrapposto. Her dark face looks over to him, where he sees the chocolate freckles coat the soft mounds between her brows, and the hills of her cheeks.

“Aveline.”

“You were to be here yesterday,” the African-French woman casually recites.

"You requested for my arrival tomorrow," he retorts back, making her scoff. "I came as soon as I could, though it seems even arriving early is to be late." She says nothing for a bit, and they both gaze to the disappearing ship, both mildly infuriated of the outcome…and exhausted of the chase.

“We were both played; Shay’s wit not only outsmarts us, but it’s now mocking,” she sighs, and her once determined stance softens now that the danger had passed, or escaped in this case. She paces over, passes by Connor’s front before turning on her heel to look at him, “Not that...it’s a new feeling, per-say.”

"It is one I wish has lessen after the tides of the revolution had died down." Connor strode to stand beside her properly, his boots edging along the end of the docks. Keen instincts led him bending down, tracing his fingers along the deep scratches within the wood, feeling Aveline observe his back. Something had been dragged along with little regard, tiny specks of paint peelings embedded in the dock. Bullets had severed the line keeping the ship at bay, twirling mindlessly against the ocean's gentle current. Shay left with haste, a great sense of urgency ringing him to leave such a sloppy trail behind.

But to what end?

"Any luck?"

"No, only that Shay stole something from the Fort and left with it in tow."

“A new goal we have not figured out? That makes me...uneasy.” She crosses her arms, taking Connor’s words, “Despite his sightings in the colonies, Shay has been...quiet for the past couple of months; did he not come back from some…unknown trip?”

"That was years ago, during the time of the American Revolution and when my Father-“ _Haytham died by my hand_, his soul unconsciously reminds him- “still breathed and served as Grand Master. What aims would Shay have now?"

“It’s hard to say,” she commented, rubbing her digit along her chin. “When I reached the dock, he had a full crew and barrels of supplies on the deck from what I saw.”

"He makes supply for a long voyage ahead..." Connor traces his eyes along the edge of the dock, then lifted his stare to the horizon, "Unless he has unfinished business in Europe..."

“It’s a possibility, but he must be a mad man if he plans to visit in such daring times.” Her voice develops a serious edge to it, “France is under a full plunder of revolts, and such an impact will ripple to neighboring countries around it...you don’t think...”

"Perhaps, it's unclear to me what his exacts motives consist of now, but I fear they coincide with his ambitions." Connor held still and brazen, taking in a deep breath as he challenges the seabed for answers, "One revolution led the down fall to his plots, but perhaps another...he could turn the tides."

Avelina takes a moment, “That does not bode well.”

“No, it does not.” He thought a moment, “You have connections in France.”

“As if you’ve read my mind; I shall write to the council, but I fear we will not be able to do much after that,” she affirms his memory. “The best we can do is at least warn of Shay’s arrival. We have our own matters to attend to here.”

"Maybe in time if they write back we can bring aid...but let us hope it's all for a misunderstanding on our parts. Let us hope it can only be so simple."

“We’re barely rebuilding the Brotherhood here; resources are limited, Connor. You know that,” she replied almost curtly, but no vice to it. A warning tone, one Connor recognized from all these years working with her; she was worried.

"I know. I will not exploit what little we have," Connor agreed as they both caught each other’s eyes. "But I will not turn away from a cry of help if I am given the power to do something. Shay is a threat to us all, and I would prefer he be brought to justice for his crimes here than in a foreign place."

"And what exactly is the right punishment for someone like him?" she quirked her mouth at this, seeing Connor’s brows scrunched. "When we catch him," she corrected.

"....I cannot say." Connor admitted, and revealed his lack of sleep to Aveline when he blinked wearily, "I feel it is not just for me to say what punishment he deserves when his actions have not personally affected me." Connor took a moment to find the right words, setting his uncertainty to rest, "No, not I, but there are others who have been. Perhaps they should raise judgement upon him instead."

"Shay should be praying."

Connor gave her a perplexed look as she started to walk from the dock, signaling him to follow.

"They won't be as merciful as you."

The emblematic bell tolls, and Shay reminisces the streets he took long ago. Much had changed, but the future-now-present seized a wicked turn.

The streets are shrouded in asperities and chaos, and debris clots the diseased streets and cluttered squares. The people yell for liberty and justice, and hold up their contradictions of bodiless heads piked on spears and lances. The cobblestones are smeared with crimson spoils, and the shops are hardly opened for the thirsty and deprived citizens of Paris. Shay inspects it all, takes mental notes of which places to avoid and which are safe to cross; he’s aware he will stick out from the ordinary people, but his stealth will give him the cover he needs.

He takes lodge in a quaint room, and the effulgence, gold sunset runs its course outside his dimmed window. He inspects his weaponry, makes sure it accounted for tomorrow’s awaited plan. When he pulls off his coat, he feels ten pounds lighter, but it feels…odd. Like he’s missing a piece of himself. He’s tempted to leave it on, but he’s aware of his invasive paranoia, of something going wrong at any second.

Shay takes the time to give himself a clean shave, flicking his blade clean before moving to the other side of his strong cheekbone. He relishes the feel of his locking jaw, reminding himself of where the blade will cut if he’s not careful and finishes the clean sweep. He pats his face dry and settles himself on the not-so-comfortable bed. He tests it once just to make sure, propping his hand down to hear the mattress instantly creak.

“Of course,” he exhales, resisting the urge to shoot a stare at the window, as if the city itself were to blame for his misfortune. Then again, the city was good at destroying itself from the inside and out. So, he makes himself situated, lays his cracking back on the decent (hopefully clean) sheets, and ponders to the ceiling in thought.

But Shay is a man who recollects for too long.

He awakens in the middle of the night, the sounds of distant yells and the nocturnal cats running amok. He’s lying awake in the bed, tries to fog his contrite mind with sleep but it refuses; it wants to remind him again.

Of what had happened, what he had done.

The way the screams inside that church rattled with the quake. The way the buildings toppled and shattered like glass to reflect him all the mistakes he had made in the span of five minutes; the way the sun scorched the cracking gravel where new sediment and rock flooded the streets, where the planet moved its jaws and pried open to eat the entire town to satiate its remorseless appetite. The men and women swamped the tearing streets in disarray, and the cries of the children impaled the air as the earthquake rattled his ears like the massive bells in the Notre Dame cathedral.

To remind him of the tolls.

To remind him why he despised the Creed.

He rubs his eyes clean of the images, and seats himself up. He finds the red cross in his grasp, though he doesn’t remember when he reached for it from the short dresser on his left. He sees the crimson shine, and allows it to be the only thing he can see. He curls his thick fingers around the slightly dented, metal edges; the battles and events it has seen transpire in the entirety of Shay’s young life.

The young life where things appeared so simple.

_They played you. _

He scowls at this, and the expression hits him like a brick.

He genuinely felt sad, of what had happened. Of what it had come to be…to lead him here. To be like this. All killed, by his hand, taught by all of them that believed he had the potential to do greater things. Nurtured, bred by the Creed with the upmost care, to make him the assassin they wanted him to be.

It wasn’t fair.

He didn’t want it, want this. But they made him do it.

They made him react, and he had to do the right thing.

The right thing for everyone.

He was to meet them at the manor in the evening, and Shay wasn’t going to disappoint.

A beige attire overtook his ebony threads, and buttons of elaborate designs adorned his collars and front. He did his best to straighten out his clothes and hide his weapons in plain sight without the aid of a mirror. Once done dressing, Shay tied his thick hair up into a ponytail, feeling the end of it lay on the upper part of his back. Finally, he fixed the white sleeves peering out of his cuffs for the last touches. He tucked the Templar symbol in his marble-white collar before he set off for the streets.

They were quite controlled today, but not better than the day before. He could still hear the rioting streets not too far; the nicer section of the Marais district was almost secluded from the rest of Paris’ unraveling madness. Men of high class escorted well-dressed women to the open shops and operating carriages. Some women even walked by themselves, either with another friend or their children in tow. Every now and then he would find a beggar, but they moved themselves away from his sight soon after. The light of the day dimmed, and so the lanterns burned from the working men who lit them every night.

There was a large crowd basking in the front of the manor’s entrance when he arrived, guards posted at every door, crevice and exit. Snipers on the roof almost blended with the night sky if it wasn’t for their patrolling sections.

_Clever,_ he made his way to the entrance, and stood patiently in the formed line. It moved bit by bit, Shay taking in the faces of the carefree, privileged partygoers. When it was his turn, he tucked out his Templar cross, and promptly stood with hands folded in front of him.

“Invitation?” the guard asked, and held out his gloved hand. Shay reached into his pocket, pulled out the small, once sealed parchment, and handed it over. The top-hat, suited man took it genteelly, read the name….and then his eyes flickered in recognition to his face, and then the cross Shay carefully centered on his chest.

“_Monsieur_ Shay Cormac,” his English tongue cut into his usual French.

“Yes, that is I,” Shay reaffirmed the doorman.

The male raised a ringed palm, and bowed his head briefly, “_Un moment_.” And he parted from the doorway and further into the busied room. The line of attendees murmured in question, Shay standing straight and silent while looking straight ahead and into the lively crowd. A moment later, the doorman returned, and was accompanied by two guards in red and tricorne hats where their bandanaed heads hid underneath.

“Shay Cormac, _right this way. We’ve been expecting you_.” Shay didn’t question, and was allowed right in.

The maroon rug rivered through the extravagantly dressed rooms and corridors; fine paintings of portrait columned the walls, and the tall windows with evenly distributed, squared windows were lit creamy from the lampposts outside. Gold trim of leaves and flowers rimmed every visible door and open façade, creating heavenly patterns on plastered supports and ceilings. The marble floor of the grand room was the escalation of it all, with suspended crystal chandeliers illuminating above and an orchestra of fine instruments commenced the waltz. It was vastly occupied by boots and heels alike. Cushioned seats and couches were in every room to accommodate the partygoers that were obligated to be present or those tired of dancing. Either way they remained undisturbed, while a few women gazed toward Shay’s direction. He merely acknowledged them with a nod, but it was becoming enough to garner their attention for the foreign man. A few jealous or curious men looked his way, questioning whether they had seen him before, or knew of his face; all met with no sure answer, only speculations.

“This way,” one guard beckoned with his shoulder, leading the two behind him. It was obvious English was not the guards’ strong suit by the silence, but again Shay did not press to make conversation, and merely followed their orders without an objection.

He knew better.

They cut around a corner, and the populace of attendees decreased the further they trekked. The guards increased in posts, but Shay was cleared as they soon arrived in a lone room.

“Wait,” the same guard announced, and the two hardly exchanged him a glance before they left, and remained posted at the doorway behind him. Shay inspected their backs, and then the quiet quarters instead. He rested his hands behind his back, fiddling with the wavy cuff of his blouse to occupy his tense fingers. He paced himself soundlessly about, mindlessly looking at the half-moon desks, the finely furnished dresser, and the large mirror that hung a good two foot off the ground. He didn’t bother to take look at his reflection for long, and instead faced the next figure that opened the other doors that had been locked a second ago.

Standing readily there was a man shrouded in dark clothes, an outfit blocked from the large gown he wore, and his face shrouded in an exceptionally, hefty hood like a grim reaper. A cross was embedded in his black scarf at the very center of his collarbones, and a dark, red stole medaled at the ends swung to and fro down his front shoulders when he approached Shay. Before Shay could act, or say anything, the extolled figure beat him to it and held out his hand.

“Shay Cormac. It’s my pleasure to finally meet you,” he spoke in almost, perfect English.

Shay gave a small smirk, and nodded of the genuine greeting, “You must be Germain.”

“Call me Thomas, whichever is easier for you,” Germain added casually, and gave a smile. “You have a traveled a long way, please if you would like anything to drink or eat…”

“That’s kind of you, but I am well for now,” Shay lifted a hand with a small shake of his head. “Maybe such pleasantries would be fitting after; I’m not late for the meeting, am I?”

“You’ve arrived just on time. Everyone has gathered, and are awaiting your destined arrival.”

“Then please, lead the way,” Shay returned a smile, and he swore he could see a glint emerge in Germain’s shrouded, heterochromia eyes.

Truth be told, Shay would’ve expected a severely hidden room in such a place, but with how big it was already, it was fair to say that none of the ordinary guests in the mansion would come snooping this far in (especially with stationed guards in every sector he had passed coming in). It was a room on top of a cellar that was under some sort of renovation. Most of the entire floor was covered, except for a section that was boarded. There were no windows, no furniture, a mere four walls, the one door Shay walked through, and three bodies that remained in wait.

Shay’s gaze was drawn immediately to the weaker, dither member of the group, a hunched man that wore ragged and heavily worn clothes, his coat cut at every visible part yet patched up enough to keep its use. His bifocals glistened when his head was tilted a certain way, smudged with fingerprints and dirt. He hid his eyes away underneath his leather, floppy hat, and the gray straw that he presumed to be what was left of his hair.

Another was a man almost as white as a corpse, eyes as dark as a vacant skull. White hair curtained the sides of his head in a clean, straight cut. His entire wardrobe was a murky, black tone, the whites of his blouse the only highlights of his attire. Lastly was a woman with refined poise, dressed in the best silk Shay ever laid eyes on. Her buttoned front pushed her covered chest purposely to thin her waist, and she was not too shy to display herself to Shay’s presence. Her shoulders were mounted with a heavy scarf, trimmed like the walls of the manor itself, and a golden lace holding her clean hair in a high bun.

“Our guest has arrived from the Americas,” Germain started once the doors were closed, continuing their secrecy. He gestured to Shay, “Shay Cormac has made his presence; let us welcome him warmly to our cause. Shay, these are the men and woman of my inner circle to rebuild the Parisian Order, and change Paris for the better. Marie Levesque, _Roi des Thunes_, and _la Touche_,” he finished to the one with glasses.

“It is an honor to meet you, _Monsieur_ Cormac,” Marie regarded, and bowed herself promptly the minute she got the chance. _Thunes_, the pale man merely stared at Shay, while the finnicky _la Touche_ adjusted his glasses properly on his broken nose.

“It is…with hope that you show us your ways, and grant us with the aid we need to rebuild what has been needed changed,” _Thunes _replied when Germain gave a stare at him to add something to the awkward silence that almost grappled the group.

“Coup of a coup,” _la Touche_ suddenly added, giving a nervous chuckle when Shay shot his stare right at him. Through him. And he didn’t look away.

Shay decided.

“Whenever you are ready, Shay,” Germain insisted with a satisfied grin, and rested his hands in front of him. “Lend us your wisdom, your guidance; we’ve heard so much of your accomplishments in the Americas. We believe in progression, and for far too long the Order in France has done nothing but serve those above the ordinary citizens. The city is burning, and we want to amend that, and nurture it to a greater ascension. You, Shay Cormac, will lead us to the New Order, and we will do what it takes to make that realization come true.”

Shay regarded Germain who stood in front of his group.

And he smiled, “Then, let us begin.”


	2. The Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyyyyyyyye Part Deux

“_Can’t I go with you, Father_?”

“Courage, my boy. _You wait just here. I will return when this hand reaches the top_.”

“_That’s forever_.”

“_Not as long as all that. And when I get back, we’ll see the fireworks_.”

……

“_And Arno? No ‘exploring’, hmm_?” 

“_Oui, Father_.”

That would be the last conversation Arno Dorian will have with his father.

Before he sunk into the chair of the Versailles Palace, swept away with boredom and restlessness. Before he did the exact opposite of his father’s request. Before that infectious giggle rang, a young girl his age hiding from behind a pillar and enticing him into a game of chase.

Stealing apples from the table, laughing upon the guards’ livid expressions while escaping their pursuit. Then…there was screaming within the palace and the guards left without even acknowledging Arno’s admittance to thievery. The boy didn’t understand, nor did the young Elise when she excitedly insists for the duo to investigate the mesmerizing matter. 

The matter…was a body.

Crippled in the darkness of shadows, the guards and the adults that were of attendance distorting around the incident. The hush whispers and gossip tainted the air, choking and blockading the very means of getting closer. Elise had been holding to Arno’s hand when they tried to force their way through, but they were only children and the adults were far too nosy to care for them. They were separated and Arno grew alerted of his suffocating surroundings. He rightfully panicked, clutched his pocket watch and checked the time for reassurance. His father was coming to get him soon, surely. Perhaps he was on the other side of this large mass…

Arno persevered, clinging to the **courage** that his father taught him. He pushed through long limbs of legs, of dresses far too large for him to sweep underneath. He might have frightened someone, but the boy didn’t have much time to think upon it. His father was going to be distraught at him for running off, he could already hear the disappointing tone in his voice.

“Father?” His voice dissolves within the loud commotion, “_Father! Where are you?_”

No response.

Because Arno would never get one from here on out-

“_He’s dead_!”

“_Come away, clear the scene_!”

“_Stay back, give us room_.”

As he laid his large, glassy spheres on the matter. On the body.

His….father’s body. On the carpet floor. Eyes wide open, almost engorged by how aged his skin had become around the organs. The sunset painted across his soiled, marooned face, and speckles of blood dotted like constellations on his collared neck.

Dead. Arno’s father was dead.

The crowd watched in horrid silence, because who would be brave enough to tell this young boy what the unfortunate, feral future had in store for him. Of what was going to be like without his father growing up. Of the challenges it would bring. The amount of loss, the amount of loneliness, the number of endless tears through the night when he no longer tucked him in bed, take him on strolls, nor take him to see fireworks ever again.

Arno lost strength in his limbs, the metal watch slipping from his small fingers like sand grains. The chain chimed when it left his grip, but he didn’t hear it. The ticks of the long hand boomed with force, and it grew louder with every millisecond it descended away from his reach. At his knees, the ticking bombarded his numb limbs, and this dark void shadowed the bright colors of the room. His vision teared, and this sudden threshold cemented his feet to the carpeted floor.

_TICK. _

The pocket watch ceased to move any further.

“_Come away, boy_—”

A hand stretched out to him, and the world swirled to his feet. Arno swept down, clutching the pocket-watch to his chest and backed away. The group watched him, unable to respond with the words that could quell the tempest in his mind. The small boy peered to the metal watch, the thin arrow twitching in place. The last gift from his father ticked aimlessly, stuck forever at this moment. To forever remind him of his mistake.

“Arno—”

He should’ve listened.

“Arno.”

He shouldn’t have run off.

“Arno, _look at me_.” 

The young boy’s orbs lifted swiftly in alarm, to a find a man he had never seen before extending his hand out to him. He was dressed in fine threads, much finer than half of the noblemen standing beside them. At his side was Elise, clutching the helm of the man’s black dress-coat. She looked at Arno reassuringly, and Arno….trusted her. She was the only person he knew now.

There was no one else left.

He sat in the living room, having only removed his small coat. He kept it in his lap though, and fiddled with the soft materials in his palms. His pink eyes never left the golden pattern along the hem, trying to remember the way the yarn curved and swirled to create the floral leaves and petals. It was quiet now, all the adults having left him at some point, though he didn’t remember exactly when. The day was never-ending, as if time couldn’t go any slower than it already was, like it would be stuck on this day. Forever.

He wondered if he would wake up soon….and it would be the next day, his father waking him up by brushing his hair back….

He wondered where Elise was.

They talked for a long time inside.

He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep. He was brushed gently on his head, and for a moment, he realized that if he squinted hard enough, he could pretend the silhouette of _de la Serre_ (that was Elise’s father) was in fact, his own parent.

But he had to open his eyes fully, and the mirage took his dreams away.

“Arno? How are you feeling?”

He hesitated, shifted his eyes to _de la Serre_’s shoulder. He clamped his fingers closed, pressing his lips together to prevent any kind of sound escaping him.

“_I’m….sorry about what happened_.”

“_Will I see my father soon_?” he blurted out.

“_I’m….that’s not possible, Arno_.”

“_Why not_?” Please, don’t say that.

“_Because_.”

“_Because he’s dead_?”

_De la Serre_ nodded solemnly, “Yes, Arno.”

“_I can’t go see him_?”

“_No, you cannot_.”

“_If I die, then I can see him_?” The older man merely stared at him, kept his hand on his bent knee where he scratched at the fabric. “_I can be with him in Heaven_?”

“_We will talk more tomorrow. For now, we have a bed for you to sleep in. Don’t you want to rest_?”

“…Yes.” It was for the best.

And he was given the small guest room where he was alone. Despite having _de la Serre_ tuck him in, Arno sniffed to himself when the door closed.

He missed his father’s goodnight kisses to his head, and that did it.

He cried into the pillow where he tried to muffle them away.

So he sobbed loudly to get it out of his body. His nails sunk into the soft fabric, and his spine curled like that of a small, helpless mouse. Nothing but poor squeaks out of him until his breath hitched merely. The tears caked his reddened face, and his eyes hurt when he tried to open them. He sat up and rubbed them off, uncaring that he ruined the fine shirt his father worked so hard to keep clean. He pushed off the covers, and his socked feet almost floated on the carpet floors. He glided through the bedroom, opened the door, and drifted down the hallway ghost-like. The manor was large, few servants still awake as they tended to the nightly chores. Arno snuck easily, and then he found the only lit Study where he heard a pair of voices. He recognized one of them as _de la Serre_’s.

He motioned his way to the door and lifted his fist to knock when-

“_Surely, you will let him stay_…” the female voice sounded out.

“I’m unsure if that is the best.”

Arno froze, and merely stood in front of the double doors. The color of his face drained, and instead he curled his tiny hands into his chest, shutting his eyes. He was going to be kicked out?

“_He has nowhere to go, Francois; only the orphanage will be his bed_.”

“_I’m aware_.”

She sounded upset, out of breath, “You were friends with Charles. Why are you making this a difficult decision?”

“Because you know what it will mean, Julie. You know this is not an ordinary case.”

“You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be,” she sighed again. Arno could hear her get up, and watched the shadow underneath the door slowly move across. Another shuffle of feet, and _de la Serre_ was aiding her to sit. “He’s only a boy, Francois, he owes no debt or servitude to any factions. Whether it be of ours or our enemies…he should be allowed to grow without influence.”

“But to suggest that is almost improbably.”

“Do you think our daughter’s values have changed? After encountering those whose families have different beliefs than ours?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“If Elise trusts this boy, then I’m sure he is good at heart, enough to trust even.” She coughed, all was still until she sighed again. Arno tried to breathe as little as possible. “It would be nice for her to spend time with someone her age; to allow her the brief respite of a normal childhood freed of duties…they both could use that.”

He had no idea what they were talking about…

“….I will think upon it then. Perhaps even Elise’s influence on him will suggest otherwise later on in life.”

“**_Francois_**.”

“_I’m merely suggesting, love. I won’t put that expectation upon him. You have my word_.”

“What are you doing here?” Arno jumped at the whisper in his ear, and he nearly banged against the door from the suddenness of it. He whirled his head around, seeing the red strands illuminate around Elise’s head. She gripped his sleeve gently, and tugged him a bit away from the door so she could speak to him a bit more clearly. “Were you listening to my father and mother talking?”

Arno cut his gaze to the ground, rubbing his arm roughly.

She tilted her head, and brushed the back of her hand against his dried cheek, “You couldn’t sleep, could you?”

He tried to answer, but all he could do was shake his head.

She hooked her limb around his, the sleeve of her sleepgown riding up to her elbow to reveal her pale, freckled skin, “Then come, you can sleep in my bed.” They walked through the hallway quietly, Elise skilled to dodge the rounds of the servants far easier than Arno; this probably wasn’t her first time doing this.

They slipped into her room, the dim light of the night fogging her curtains. He could make out papers and trinkets on her desk, including a globe mapped with labeled islands and a galloping horse paperweight. Elise shuffled onto her queen bed, and huddled herself in the puffy covers so much Arno was sure her bed ate her whole. Her small arm waved like a victorious flag, and she gripped the covers off to give a pathway for Arno to see her.

“Come on,” she beckoned with a smile, and patted the bed. “You’ll be nice and warm here.” Arno went to the edge, and hauled himself up, almost losing his footing. Elise kneeled and helped to tug him on top, securing his body beside her. Next, she tucked the covers around themselves, and she laid on her back to face the ceiling like Arno was. She wiggled her toes, seeming rather pleased of their adventure getting here.

Despite the events that transpired to lead him here….he felt somewhat calm being close to her. She was the light in the darkness of it all, even with a future so unsure of whether he would continue to stay here or not. He caught her gaze, seeing her smile in full, and he couldn’t help but do the same despite the sadness that came with it.

If he did manage to stay here with her….

“Now, go to sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

“You think so…?” he sniffled, rubbing the edge of his nose off with his sleeve.

To wake up to a new morning.

“I promise, Arno.”

Things would be better.

“Thank you, Elise.”

And he closed his eyes.

_TICK._

The walls rattled, and he furrowed his brows. He mashed a hand against his eyes, groaning irritably at the rude awakening. Again, the world itself shook explosively at its own accord, but the slap to his head was what made him hiss.

“What are you-“

“Get up, pisspot,” the scratchy voice grumbled, accompanied by the two other, familiar voices that had been with him for the past couple of months. Arno stood up and coughed once to unravel the dry lodge in his throat. He wiped his oiled face on his muddy blouse he had grown accustomed to, and got on his feet with whatever remained of proper footwear. The striking light of the morning nearly blinded him when he saw all three prisoners of the cell look out to the city. He made his way over, climbing on top of a spare box to reach the thin loophole facing the east. 

The sky was almost black, torches of fires and muskets swimming down the streets. Nearby shops and tables of cafes were lit with lethal flames, and corrupted citizens chanted with malice. Uniformed guards fell back to line, and they ran out of view away from the crevice’s opening.

“What’s happening?”

“An opportunity,” the shaggy-haired man that had woken him up made his way over, signaling him to get down. Arno took one last look of the city before stepping down, flinching from the sudden jolt the fortress received yet again. “Stand at the ready, and remember what I taught you.”

“Bellac-“

“_Check the prisoners_!”

“_Stand against the wall, all of you_!”

“Move it, boy!”

Arno didn’t wait to be told twice, and cut across the cell to stand behind a wooden pillar in the room. Bellac creeped across from him, kneeled down as he peeked around the short, stone pillar, doing his best to remain invisible to the arriving patrol. Arno ducked his head back in, hearing the jingling of keys and the rusted, metal bars creak from the abrupt opening. Three urgent guards stepped in, flicking their swords to the side.

“_You two! The wall_!”

“_Where are the other_-“

“Now!” Bellac’s voice boomed with the next cannon fire from the outside world, leaking dirt and dust from the rock ceiling. Arno swiftly cut into the fray, seeing Bellac had disarmed the closest, unsuspecting guard, and had robbed him of his weapon. Bellac drove it through his stomach, gave a twist and kicked the crying man away. The red splattered against the ground, alarming the two other prisoners who screamed of the sudden ambush. Bellac clashed his red blade with the trio’s leader, leaving Arno to deal with the last man.

Arno kicked the man’s hand before he could even lift it, the sword falling to the ground from the fierce blow. The sentry stumbled, but was not quick enough to remove Arno’s arm around his collared neck. Arno refused to lessen the pressure, and after a few seconds, the man was unconscious in his arms, having left scratch marks along Arno’s limb. He set him on the ground, and looked up to see Bellac had driven his obtained sword from his opponent’s chest. With a yank he set it free, Arno looking away from the gasping, paled face.

“Arm yourself, we’re leaving.”

“How, this place is a fortress,” Arno was ignored as Bellac motioned his way to the opened cell door, beckoning him to follow.

“Trust me,” Bellac finished, inspecting the abandoned corridors and having caught a glimpse of something at the end. Arno followed (he was running with low options here) and was soon facing an opened window, the thick glass having shattered from a forceful impact. Bellac stepped on the stone rim, and leapt himself out easily; Arno had grown slightly fearful he would lose footing for his older age, but Bellac was not one to share all his skills all at once. He was crossing along a thick rope, and whatever compelled Arno to follow…

It might have been madness. 

“_Ready, aim…FIRE_!”

The ground below encased in a discharge of smoke, a barricade of guards defending what was left vital in the Bastille. An angry mob of civilians pursued their way into the lowered gate, sprinting over the already scattered bodies of their brothers and sisters that had fallen in the first ten minutes of the raid. The floor was literally littered with them.

What was happening?!

“Where are we going!?”

“Up!”

“How are we going to get down then?!” Arno barked at Bellac’s rapid ascension.

“Trust me!”

They reached the top, Arno keeping close to Bellac’s frantic sprint across the tousled scraps of cannons, ropes, torn flags and muskets. All able-bodied guards disorderly ran back and forth, howled orders going ignored as the cries and firepower from the streets below overpowered all sense of logic and control. The prison was at the mercy of the rioters, and everyone inside. Arno wouldn’t leave it up to chance to let the driven, hostile people determine his fate so early.

Bellac stepped up to the edge of a tower’s merlon, examining the frenzied individuals at the Bastille’s base. Arno couldn’t help but peer over himself, and physically cringe at how high they were, and why the hell Bellac was now-

“You can’t be serious, are we really going to climb down like that?” Arno interjected, unable to uncoil his fingers away from the ledge. He watched his prison mate stand at the very edge of the building, looking down as if they were merely taking a normal stroll at the park- “What are you doing?!”

“It’s time to stop asking questions, and do as you’re told, pisspot!” the goateed man rebuttled, “Now get your ass up here!”

“You’ve scrambled your brains, old man!” Arno retorted, shaking his head in full retaliation as he backed away. “I-It’s too high, you’ll die if you leap!”

Bellac steadied his pose, and glared down at Arno who couldn’t look away, “What have I taught you for the past months?? You think it was all for show, all for some theatrical play? This is what I prepared you for; imagine what you’ll learn outside of these hell walls! The Brotherhood has many resources, and it would be a damn shame to see all my hardwork go to waste just because you didn’t grow a damn pair.”

Arno’s brows furrowed at this, a boiling pot riling up his throat at the insult alone, “I’m not a waste!”

“Show me what you’re worth then, and take this leap of faith!” Bellac ordered one last time. He gave Arno one last look, “Or be my guest, and perish with the rest of this fucking city.” And he launched himself off-

“Bellac!” Arno rushed to the edge, and stared in horror the faster Bellac fell. Just when he thought he would see the old man’s brains splatter on the deserted moat below, a cart of hay caught his fall (how convenient, right??). Arno narrowed his eyes, and they shot wide open to see the man unhurt with the few straws sticking out of his opened shirt and black hair. Then he rushed into the emerging crowds, and Arno had lost sight of his temporary mentor. “…..What the fuck????”

There’s no….bloody chance.

Arno hissed to himself, rubbing his face clean of the accumulated nervous sweat he got just watching. He swallowed, shifted his eyes among the scenery he was in, pressed his lips together…but his fate had already been sealed. Either go back down the way he came and expect capture, or take a leap of faith…and try not to die.

Decisions.

“This is stupid,” Arno growled, and faced the sky for three seconds, “….Damn it.” His inch-heels touched the stone with hesitant taps, but once there he contemplated everything in his life; no ordinary man would stand so casually three hundred feet from the ground with little chance to survive it. Did he really have to go through with this?

The months had flown, but everything that led up to this point in his life was far from ordinary. Arno was not an ordinary boy, and never had the chance to be no matter where he went, or who he associated himself with.

And, currently, he was facing the urge to jump off the Bastille’ tower and miss the cart to make his life so much easier.

“_Secure the prisoners_!”

“……_MERDE_.” Arno made haste, and tied a long rope around the stone pillar, though it was quite obvious it wouldn’t reach the ground. With a fierce, determined pull, it was set and he fastened the rope around his shaking hand.

“_You there_!”

“_Stop citizen_!”

“_Merde merde merde_…” Arno shut his eyes, prayed, and started his climb down the tower. His foot lost grip, and he couldn’t help but scream at how fast his worn heels skidded down the stone, threatening to ignite themselves. Just when Arno thought the rope would give way, he hauled with force, and his arms paid the price for his halt. He growled at the pulled muscle, and looked down to see he was halfway. A wooden beam perching out of the castle’s side was in view-

The rope in his hand slipped, and Arno braced himself to catch the post, “Yes!-“ his feet slammed down onto it….and it snapped in half- “No no no no NO NO NO!” Arno covered his head and neck as he tumbled, unable to scream from the shock until his back touched something soft- “ACK!” and finally into the bed of the cart Bellac had fallen into before.

“I’m……okay.” His feet touched the green and mud that laid awaiting at the fortress’s floor, and wobbled to the stone barrier of the moat’s exterior ring.

He staggered to his feet, and stumbled to the proper ground floor. The chaos of the crowd urged Arno to move away from the frenzy, and he stuck close against the walls of buildings and tiny sectors. The riled men cut across the streets, and the pedestrians who feared for their safety ran in the opposite direction of the fortress. Arno held his bruised side, wincing as he was hit by a rushing man who nearly rammed him against a glass window. He cursed at the throbbing pain of his arm, thinking, contemplating where to go.

But Versailles was far.

He hadn’t eaten or slept properly enough for the journey. He was in the middle of a battleground, and the last thing anyone would do was give him any sort of help. France was in no state to do that, and he had no idea why; any news of the city had been cut off from the prison entirely, and to find it in such a state angered him on what could’ve gone wrong with his country.

“Elise,” but the name alone left him lonelier than ever before.

Even at the first day of his freedom.

He busied himself in his thoughts once he was a good distance away from the Bastille. He pressed himself against a wall, hidden in the shadow of a tunnelway from prying eyes. He could hear the distant booms of firing muskets, and the cries of angry civilians. He mashed his hands against his ears, trying to prioritize what his next move would be. Or at least, what would the smartest thing to do to stay alive.

He shifted in his seat, and reached to pull the medal copper from his pocket. He lifted it enough to look at the insignia engraved on the medallion. How crazy was Bellac? Honestly speaking.

This talk about Assassins, and Templars, a whole entire ordeal lost to the public eye but has been in production for centuries? Arno had studied history for most of his life, and not once had he heard about wars of ancient artifacts and Pieces of Eden. Truth be told, he only listened to Bellac and nodded his head like he was paying attention, because let’s face it: Bellac had been to too many prisons (as he had shared), and Arno was positive he had some lose screw in there. Training aside, everything the old looney had said went in one ear and out the other. It was best to keep it that way.

Stories. They were stories and nothing more.

And Elise wasn’t going to be a part of that.

Everything Bellac has said to him, it couldn’t be true….could it? He had to….find out. Somehow. Then, he had to make the trip soon. Elise would be there, she would be home waiting for him.

He mustered his energy, feeling the soreness of his hamstrings when he pushed himself to his feet. He inspected the street for any sort of danger, though it was a bit hard to distinguish of the protesting mobs that started to collect yet again. Shouts of liberty and justice rang free, and the patriot self of Arno wanted nothing more than to know what it was the people were fighting for.

But what remained of his family came first.

He moved himself to the middle of the cobblestone, lifting his arm to notice he was still clutching the medallion. He lifted it between his fingers, and scowled the supposed, Assassin symbol pooled in the middle of the dotted rings.

“What’s it even supposed to mean-“ Arno flicked the coin across….but what he didn’t anticipate was the person it hit- a hooded figure- “O-Oh, I’m sorry-GAH!”

Needless to say.

This was his fault.

The figure almost phased through the running bodies, and in a matter of two seconds Arno was being rammed by a shop wall and forcibly peering to the shadowed face that lifted him inches off the ground. His eyes widened, unsure why this person in particular had the same color of the Assassin medallion in her eyes- a woman???- WHAT-

“_I should rip your head off of your shoulders, boy_.” Her voice was a tongue he had never heard of; she spoke French…but she wasn’t French. The flesh he could make out wasn’t light-skinned, nor any color he had ever seen on a human being. A part of him convinced him he was already dead and hallucinating, but again gold coins glimmered feral from the cowl.

“_I-I didn’t see you, madame_!” Arno kicked to loosen the grip against his throat, but her purchase strengthened, and he stilled himself to not agitate her further. “I-you’re-squeezing too….hard….”

Arno squinted, almost blinded from the severe suffocation. Suddenly, a magic force found him leeway, Arno greedily drinking the savory air. His eyes flickered to regain him his sight, removing the bubbles of light. He prepared for a second attack, but watched as the woman merely kicked the medallion away and burned her eyes to him. To make him remember forever. Arno looked away….where he saw the same symbol of Bellac’s gift engraved on her ring finger.

Before he could ask, he was coughing on the ground, clutching his neck after being harshly dropped. The mysterious woman was already moving, trekking her way through the moving crowds and so fluidly that Arno almost lost her.

Almost.

“Wait! Stop!”

She went through here. He was so certain. It was such a nice place, and a good distance away from the disorder many blocks away. It was closed….but he was so sure- god, he was going to throw up if he didn’t stop moving eventually.

He walked through the stone archway of the barricaded business, walking round the somewhat running fountain that was filled to the brim with moss and slimy pebbles. His nose scrunched of the small scent from it, ignored it and proceeded to the front door. The building almost looked abandoned…but he made it this far, and was confident of his trail. What did he have to lose?

He clenched his fist and gave a firm knock. Commotion was inside, heels trotting to the fine oak. It opened and Arno faced a wide woman, adorned in embellished threads, a hefty necklace, and jeweled earrings of green. Her brown strands peeked from her floral hat, emerald pearls looking back to Arno’s spheres.

“_Oh, we’re closed today_-“ she attempted to close the door.

“No no, I’m not here for-AHH,” he managed to squeeze a foot through, but regretted it almost being jammed by the door. He was anticipating sleeping in a casket by the end of the day from how many causalities he was getting. “I have….questions…ow.”

“Questions of what?” she pressed firmly, pouting her flushed lips. “You best move on. dear.”

“Please.” He snatched out the medallion, and lent it out for her to see. The woman squinted her eyes…and then they widened after her examination.

“An Assassin? You’re an Assassin?”

“Er…why yes, I am,” he nodded after tucking it back into his pocket, giving a sly smile. “The woman, with her ring finger marked. Is she here? It’s important I see her….Assassin business and the like. _You get it, oui_?”

“Yes, yes come in,” she waved her hand inward, easily falling for his lie. He resisted smirking, and stepped inside. “You look so famished, would you like some tea, coffee? Biscuits?”

“Yes, please. My name is Arno, madame. What may I call you?”

“Charlotte. Here, sit.”

Arno was seated at an open table (out of the handful that were around), and was presented with pastries and bread from the counter at the far side. He did his best to retain his learned manners from the _de la Serre_’s housing, and kept his hunger at bay. He lavished in the dough, and his stomach thanked him kindly for eating so slow. The sugar in the coffee filled him with an excitement he had not felt since he was a child, even if it were a moment.

“Wait right here!” the woman named Charlotte waved her hand frantically down, and picked up her dress at the edges. She trotted away, leaving Arno to fully bask in his given food- he was starving-

“So good….” he moaned to himself, and finished the rest of his coffee in one gulp, “HOT HOT…”

“_My lady! An Assassin is here to see you_!” He heard her.

“_I’m not seeing any of the squad today_-“

“_No no, a new boy. With a baby face_.” Arno pouted at this, and grabbed his face to measure his cheeks.

“…I do not have a baby face…” he mumbled, clasping onto his beard.

“_He wishes to speak to you. Says its urgent_.”

Arno bolted to his feet, and faced the same woman as before who stood at the open doorway, to the right of the small stage inside the built cafe. He was right! She did sneak in here. Oh was she not happy to-oh god she was marching-

“Now, now-“ he held out his hands protectively in front of him, her threatening stride stopping right before him (clearly, she was not so thrilled to have him in here), “I don’t want to relive our last experience.”

“Why did you let this boy in, Charlotte?” the unnamed woman snapped angrily, and darted her face to address the much nicer and social aristocrat.

“He’s an Assassin, of course,” the kinder woman rested her fists on her hips, leaning her busty front to combat against the other woman’s straight posture who remained unaffected by it.

“He’s not; he’s in rags and smells like he came out of the goddamn sewer.” He wrinkled his nose at this, trying to tuck his sleeve more down. The woman’s hood remained on, but Arno could still make out the gold coins tucked in the darkness; he wasn’t hallucinating their true color was he? “I want him out.”

“I will do no such thing!”

“We’re not a shelter, Charlotte!”

“And I own half of this café. You do not have the right!”

“If I may,” Arno held out his hands to dissuade the tension, but this only agitated the dangerous female who stepped forward, making Arno take as step back. “I..I need your help. I’m no one to you, I understand, but please….I was given this medallion. After you answer my questions, then I’ll leave. I promise.”

“…..Show some hospitality, this once,” Charlotte urged, agitated of what seemed like routine.

The unnamed woman took a moment.

Conflicted, as Arno saw her bite the inside of her mouth to prevent herself from talking.

“Sit,” she snapped after a moment. Arno did so. She sat across from him, her eyes targeted straight at him. Through him. “What do you want to know?”

“First off….I apologize for…hitting you.”

“That wasn’t a question, and you’re not forgiven,” she swiftly replied.

He tried again, “Of course. Can I…..ask what this medallion means?” He lifted it again, and placed it on the table cautiously. For all he knew, she had every goddamn right to flick it back to him and actually hit his eye. But she did no such thing, not even look at it. He wondered why….

“It’s an Assassin medallion,” she simply answered.

Arno pursed his lips, resting his hands on his lap, “Oh….good to know. So….it’s real.”

“You were holding it, weren’t you?” she was unamused of his observation.

“Right, right…” Arno cleared his throat, Charlotte standing by Elysia’s side, and being the only reason why Arno wasn’t being flung out of the window right now. “I….a man named Bellac gave it to me.”

She said nothing, her mouth a firm line.

“Do you know Bellac?”

“I do.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“No,” she answered promptly. Was she going to be like this with every reply?

“Can you help me get to Versailles?”

“No.”

He frowned at this, and he sighed.

“Why Versailles? At a time like this?” Charlotte chimed in, catching Arno’s gaze.

“My sister is there, and I don’t know if she’s alone…” _Or if she’s a Templar_. “I just want to know if she’s safe.”

“That’s….that’s awful. Surely we can acquire some sort of carriage, or horse-“

“The answer is no,” the unnamed figure spat out, making Arno jitter in his seat once.

He fiddled with the sleeves of his blouse, and sighed, “……Of course. I understand.” Charlotte scowled, but remained silent as she stared dismayed at her partner’s back.

“Do you have anything else to ask?” she cut in. _A fuck ton…but with your attitude… _“If not, I suggest you leave, I have other matters to attend to.”

“One more thing,” he obliged, and stared right at her shadowed face, unsure if he had caught her eyes. “What’s your name?”

This got her, and when he thought she couldn’t stiffen more, she was a solid boulder. He wasn’t sure where she was looking, whether she was searching for something, or was lost in thought in some other reality. The way her fingers curled inward on the table, and her upper arm flexing underneath her thin blouse, like her very heart was pulsing and reminding her to take a breath.

“My name is Arno, if you want to know,” he replied gently, instigating a response from her.

She said nothing. Charlotte motioned her hand against the chair she sat on. Edging her on, unrelenting of letting her go scot-free. They were an odd pair, but Arno could see why they both needed each other.

The seated woman sighed, and relaxed her shoulders by a fraction, enough for Arno to see her lips make a faint expression, one he recognized as….melancholy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you….” Arno waited, unyielding and smiling faintly.

The woman answered, after a moment, “My name is Elysia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT HERE WE GO AGAIN


	3. The Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three is here, better late than never (IdiedatworkgodsofHyrulehelpme).  
One month scheduling commences now, so see you guys in a month's time!
> 
> Thanks for all the feedback thus far guys, we really appreciate and can't wait to write what we have in store! Take care, and until next time~
> 
> -Keys
> 
> P.S. Excuse any typos, will fix them later.

**You can’t redeem a monster’s soul. **

Because, if you really think about it, there’s no true definition. There is not one single description of what a monster is.

A monster could easily be the beast that hides under their bed. It could be the serpent that lives at the bottom of the lake. It could be the thousands of skeletons that live underneath their very feet. It could easily be the demon that hides in their mind, or the dark cloud that hovers over them each day; monsters could be manipulated into many forms, but humans were so stubborn to always be right at the cost of their humanity. Stupid humans dreaded many different, stupid things in each stupid, unique way.

_Yet_ they did their best to play pure and honest, but we all know that’s hardly the case.

They will point, they will blame; humans will project all their insecurities and wrongs into one thing, one state of mind, a group a people, a monster because they refused to look at their own reflections. They made their own demons in their imagination and spread scriptures of how to behave, what to worship, what to value….while they let themselves roam around the world. Their destruction full reign, and their environments at their mercy.

But the Creed _refused_ to believe that.

_They never learn, do they?_

No, they didn’t.

They’ll keep that unwavering belief, have this indelible faith in the human population. Human souls were the victims they needed to save against all odds, and against all the evils thought to morph. Every soul mattered against this endgame everyone dreaded because existence and existing was a fleeting moment. And they knew it could be taken away any second.

_Because, really, Humans don’t learn do they?_

I knew they didn’t.

I knew many things. Against my will. A cobweb spun intricately in my head, with voices that sought to be my undoing.

Deadly voices.

Voices so vile and horrendous, no fanatical monster had anything on me, and no human could ever come to equals.

I was a _monster_, but how else do you fight monsters without being one?

It’s a funny tale, and if you ever asked me to tell you about it, I would laugh in your face. Actually laugh of the stupidity of your curiosity because you would never understand, and it would be much better that way. That you remained stupid; you’ll get far in life if you are, I guarantee it. And that’s how most people survived.

Whether it be a year, five, or three hundred.

But there’s this voice.

This really nagging voice in the back of my head. It was so distant and muted; it was hard to make out what it was. The words once said to me in the distant past I refused to revisit. I was done with it.

I was moving on without looking back.

But fucking hell, this voice wouldn’t shut up, even with all the other ones constantly directing my attention, tugging me in all unrelated lifetimes to pay attention. To listen to their hisses and cries. And I did, every damn night I closed my eyes.

And I was always someone else.

I wasn’t myself.

Every second of death, every body that dropped in my hands, it would always lead back to where it ended.

Where the beginning of my end laid in the ruins of Rome. As I stared at the group, the stake profoundly impaled in my chest. And how eerily slow I heaved it out that I was able to feel all the liquid in my body snake down my front, and drip down sloppily in between my legs. And then the stake found its home in the chest of another.

And she dropped like dead weight.

And so did he when I swung my arm across.

Then the crack of a neck in my grasp.

And finally…..I pulled back the arrow, and I let it go, and glared at the struggling immortal, and the way he lifted his lavender eyes-

But then-

YOU GOT IN THE WAY

**AND I DIED**

“Tch.” My fucking back. This chair was uncomfortable.

And _curse_ the sun.

I peered to the vacant room, and regretted my decision of leaving the two, double doors of my quarters that led to the balcony open. The morning, tangy light swept in harshly, and ignited all golden frames in the room to full visual, including the embellished posts of the modest, made bed at the far side. The papers on my lap fell when I stood, splaying across the floor in a disorderly manner; what once was a paper I needed to get done was nothing but a nuisance now, along with the tower stacked in the spare chair. I stalked to side of the mattress, passing over the small steps of wood trailing to the open dresser. A pair of clean clothes already awaited me there, and I didn’t waste time to undress.

A leather-brown vest, hooked over a pair of pressed, beige trousers (minus the dried splotches of blood that refused to wash away); a pair of long boots with extended cloth-coverage around the thighs, and a long sleeved, buttoned shirt coated my marked arms fully. The ancient hidden blade of Rome rested on my left hand as usual, and the right wrist was cuffed with a leather band to straighten out my forearm. Next was the maroon scarf around my neck which had bound most of my red curls underneath the coffee-colored hood. Lastly, a couple of belts tightened my pouches and sash in place.

“_Madame _Elysia?” The door was knocked, but the timid maid named Josephine dared not come in. Instead I went to her, and jerked the door open with a fluid wave. The young, freckled woman looked at the tip of my hood instead of my eyes, though I could feel her look graze the cut that ran along my nose. “_Monsiuer Grisier wishes to see you. Shall I…clean the room_?”

She was a little late. Odd.

“_Oui_,” I merely replied, and stepped around her, “Be quick about it.” And made my way down the hall of the manor-café theatre.

It was too big for what it accommodated, to be honest. Lavished with bronze statues, and columns of pearl white brandishing every corner of the upper floor, and even downstairs. The fine curtains of the row of windows oozed in the intensity of the morning, and I wanted nothing more but to slap the moon on top of its blinding sister. The main ground of the upper floor was decorated with portrait paintings and landscapes of France fields; a golden-trim railing fastened the polished fence, and the fine rug snaked it ways into the other quarters.

One of them was the training room, who’s doors were pried open. It didn’t alarm me to hear the grunts and groans from inside, belonging to none other than the colored man named Grisier, the fencing master of the manor. Upon hearing my footsteps did he pause in his step, and lowered the newly obtained rapier at hand. He smiled in my direction, and wiped off the collected sweat on his forehead. He fixed his undone collar, and then the thin scarf he had around his neck to wrap around his right hand.

“_Madame _Elysia, pleasant morning,” he bowed his head, and lifted his eyes to address me. Again, my actual eyes were avoided and paid mind to the sword instead, “You’ll enjoy practice later with this; she’s a beauty, crafted with thin but strong iron.”

“And the rest?”

“Over here,” he beckoned with a hand, and had laid the other, newly acquired swords. I walked over with intent, crossing my arms and inspecting the work silently. “It took a bit to get them, but they all arrived safely.”

“Reassuring to know my money wasn’t wasted,” my eyes latched to the distinctive sword of the group, and I gripped it to hold it up for better view. The curved blade was lathered with shine, recently wiped of any debris it might’ve gotten on its travel to get here; if I knew Grisier, it was the first one he cleaned when he got the chance. The handle lumped in the heart of my palm, giving it an easier grip than the standard blade France poorly offered.

“Of course not,” the skilled fighter replied, clearing his throat, “_Monsieur_ Mathias made it my sole mission to spend _Madame_ Gouze’s money wisely.”

“I take it he’s in his study?”

“Yes,” Grisier angled the corner of his mouth (strained I might add) at this, and loaned out his hand to me. I took the message, and relinquished him my customized sword. “I shall prepare this for you, before you leave.”

I made my way down the spiraling, wooden staircase, leading into the manor’s main foyer. Another, middle-aged maid stumbled on my arrival, carrying soiled towels in her grasp. I stared at her as she apologized for her startled state.

“_Madame Elysia, good morning_,” the woman named Bridgette bowed her head. Again, my eyes were evaded.

“_Where is Sebastian, and Marceline_?”

“_Ahh…M-Marceline went for groceries, and Sebastian is in the back. He has already prepared the coffee for the day_,” she fiddled with the threads in her grasp, then bowed low enough that her messy bun almost undid itself. “_Monsiuer Mathias wishes to speak to you_.”

“_I was already on my way_,” I declared.

She nodded nervously of this, tucking a strand behind her ear “_O-Of course, my mistake. Pardon me, Madame_.” Bridgette zipped her way toward the back hallway in hurried steps. It would easily lead to the backend of the manor where I caught a glimpse of the male servant, Sebastian peeking, awaiting her arrival. Even from afar, I heard the whispers as they walked to the courtyard’s well.

“_I’ve warned you to not get on her bad side_,” he whispered lowly.

“_S-She wasn’t in a bad mood. I don’t…think. You think….she’s upset_?”

“Tch, when is she _not_.” And they proceeded their walk out of view.

I made a left from the entrance, wanting to audibly groan from how many damn windows had been opened in this damned manor. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who seemed bothered by it; a man with black hair and graying streaks, and rounded glasses motioned his way out of his room. He rubbed his ice eyes vigorously with his fore finger and thumb, and I could’ve sworn I heard his elbow crack from the very movement. He adjusted his finely threaded blouse, fixing the collar to hide his entire neck that harbored a secret cut along the side. He checked the small, chained clock that was hooked on his vest’s front pocket, then lifted his head stiffly when I came in front of him.

“_Madame_ Elysia.”

“Mathias,” I curtly replied, and walked into the Office.

What was usually a dark workplace was also slaved to the sun’s kiss. The dust that once collected ordinarily around the leather books of the enormous shelves were whisked away by the soft breeze, and the typical mess of Mathias’ ash tray and scattered cups of tea were nowhere to be seen. The cushioned seats for guests were all slapped clean, and the wooden floor was swept to the very edges. I took a distinctive look around, and only turned when the elder man sat in his usual creaking seat, and sighed loudly.

“Do I dare ask why Charlotte thought it was a good idea to blind us all this day?” I waved my arm across.

“She expressed something along the manner of….’to prevent us shut ins to become wholly terrors of the night’.” Mathias let his aged eyes settle at the room’s side, “She’s tasked the servants to clean every inch of this building, and what they cannot, she thinks nature will handle the rest.” The actual nerve.

This woman was going to be the end of me, I swear it.

“What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?” I instead shifted the conversation.

“I wanted to speak to you about our finances for this week.” Mathias drew some papers from his pile, a feathered quill drifting between his wrinkled fingers, “I had to make…some adjustments, so we’d be able to afford the rent and taxes coming up. With how our establishment is running, I’m not sure how many more of these ‘adjustments’ I’ll be able to make to keep this building afloat.”

“They’re _mandatory_ adjustments,” I fought the urge to roll my eyes, taking a seat in a cushioned chair, hooking my arm over the head of it. “Last time we tried to change it, I find you all boarded in the café, with Charlotte equipped with a broken umbrella and you with a pike from the fireplace.”

“That was a year ago,” Mathias corrected, fixing his lenses.

“When you were also insistent that Grisier wasn’t needed,” I added swiftly.

He leered at me through his spectacles at this, and it wasn’t a surprise it was a touchy subject. The elder man had made a reputation of being…..a tad meticulous with who was under his radar. Once upon a time, I was convinced that it had to do with the fact that Grisier was a colored man, and the _only _colored man in the premises (minus Marceline who was a black woman). That was clearly debunked one day, when I had found Mathias steaming in his shell of an office without even bothering to look my way when I had entered. He mumbled a morning and went to take a long smoke outside. I didn’t think much of it until I went to advise Charlotte of his sour mood, and she was busying on covering her neck. A red mark laid on it on closer inspection, and she waved to a content Grisier when he had walked by us that day with a satisfied grin on her face.

Of course she would. And Mathias was not pleased of the unprofessionalism of it all.

“That was also the day the streets were rioting, _Madame _Elysia.” Mathias lifted his gaze, unamused by my desiccated expression, “Now with another mouth to feed, I’ll have to cut back on hours or I’ll have to find ways for this establishment to actually bring in decent revenue…and that’ll have to involve-“

“What other mouth?” I furrowed my brows, and my back unintentionally erected.

“….The one you and Charlotte allowed to stay here.” He stared to me, clearly displeased. When I said nothing to affirm his statement, he straightened up, “What’s his name…..Arno?”

“……………**Where. Is. Charlotte**.” It was filled with venom, and I was immediately on my feet-

“The café- _ELYSIA_.”

And I was already dashing out of the Office, the giggle of Charlotte letting me pinpoint her location.

Passing the foyer’s entrance did I make a sharp right, the small door nearly punched open; it led to the almost vacant café in full view….except for a ritzy Charlotte adorned in a lavender dress and her signature, feathered hat….and the young man from yesterday facing his back to me. I stalked with malicious intent, Charlotte on her feet the second she saw me, her feathers jerking from her leap.

“_Bonjour_, Elysia!” she rounded the table faster than I could approach, clearly creating herself as an obstacle to get through.

“_Why is that blasted boy still here_???” I demanded loudly, pointing a finger at the hunched male. He turned slowly, fork in his hand….and his shaved mouth sprinkled with whatever crumbs he had been enjoying. Disgusting creature. “**_OUT_**.”

“_Now now, Elysia. Let’s not be rash_-“ Charlotte lifted her ringed finger up, and wagged it to me to almost poke at my face. Almost.

“_And he specifically stated he would leave yesterday. Has he been here the entire night, without my knowledge_!?” At this point, all bodies of the manor had made their way to the ruckus of the café, the servants peeking from the inner hallway, Grisier leaning to the railing from the upper floor and Mathias entering the café’s back door.

Charlotte side stepped, easing herself to purposely push her body against mine and protect Arno who was on his feet. They both rounded the polished oaked as I followed after them, twice from how agile he was. He swallowed heavily, and was trying not to choke from how much he had dared to finish stuffing in his mouth.

“I-I can see you’re upset-“ he tried, lifting a hand to dissuade the tension. It was there I noticed he even had a change of clothes aside from his disappeared beard.

“You are not involved in this!” I barked, and managed to swiftly cut across the space, irritating Charlotte of my inhumane speed.

“I feel pretty involved!” he replied with urgency, backing up what he could.

Charlotte snatched her arm forward, but I dodged successfully, and she was on the verge of losing composure, “Elysia, have some compassion! Mathias, do something!”

“If you’d just listen to me-“ Arno’s feet were scrambling. I tugged him easily, my grip iron as we moved across the spare tables. He tried to latch onto one, but merely toppled anything he got his hands on.

Mathias coughed once, wiping his glasses clean before putting them back on (because was he imagining I had flown through the air or exhaustion getting to him?), “….Maybe not how I wanted it to be handled, but that’s one less worry-“

“_ALPHONSE_!”

I inhaled sharply of the resplendent rays striking against the front courtyard, simply yanking the pest to the stone entrance-

“You are...much stronger than you look—" he wheezed.

I had enough, and snapped my arm once, lurching him in place to angle his face away, “You leave, and you don’t come back. Do you understand??”

“Elysia, please! He has no one here in Paris!” Charlotte pleaded from behind when she finally caught up, and I stiffened when her hand literally grabbed my upper arm. I shot a daunting glare right down at her, and it wasn’t a surprise to see the rest of the manor’s residences tense at the sight.

But Charlotte was a strong woman, and she didn’t fear me. Not since the first day I met her.

“Why should we make an exception for him?” Mathias decided to add in, but his voice was cautious, eyes watchful of my free hand at my side.

“_Non_! Listen to reason!” Charlotte’s emerald eyes glimmered to me in need.

“What more reason do I need?” I decided to play her little game, and the grip I had on the male hardened.

The café owner sighed at this, and her true age almost broke through the powder on her face, “….Listen to what he has to say.”

……….God damn it, woman.

I could’ve said no.

I could’ve said anything but to agree, I had the right to.

And yet…..

My attention shifted, and slowly did I lessen my grip, but kept him in my grasp. When this Arno didn’t respond did I jolt my grip down, gaining his wavering attention.

“Why are you so persistent to stay here? And you better give me a good answer,” I decided to give him a chance. Because, fuck….I was out of all chances to give out anymore.

Not anymore.

But Charlotte was the only person who ever gave a fuck about me….and….

The once nervous smile this Arno held before…. evaporated, on command; a severe interruption in his thoughts, and it was there I could clearly make out his face properly. Brown, almond shaped eyes with dark shadows underneath, a cut ran across the bridge of his nose, and soft tresses parted and swept across the sides of his forehead. His hair was long enough to barely make a ponytail, but something told me Charlotte went out of her way to cut it herself just this morning. He couldn’t be over twenty-one.

The young boy named Arno shifted in my grip, but once he realized I wasn’t going to let go did he concede to answer, “….I need help. I _need_ an explanation. This…all _this_.”

“Explain yourself,” I snipped.

“Y_ou_ know what I need to know,” he cemented, shutting his eyes while tensing his gripped limb. “You know Bellac, you know about the medallion, I need more than that!”

I said nothing, narrowing my gaze. What was this damn boy on about?

“Bellac should have given you enough to suffice your curiosity,” I mentioned casually, and this jerked his head up of my confirmation. “If you were not recruited beforehand, why now?”

“….I escaped jail.”

…..Was he in fucking jail with Bellac, and his stupid mission of visiting every prison??

“You were separated,” I pointed out. Arno nodded meekly. “Then he should have known better than to leave you behind, if he gave that medallion to you.”

“So…it’s all true. About, all these Assassins and Templars,” Arno’s eyes widened at this, and it looked like he was shifting gears. Where hesitation once was was now replaced with hunger. “You truly _are_ an assassin. The mark on your finger proves it!”

“And yet you were stupid enough to follow one for blocks,” I stated the obvious. “You must be on some kind of death wish.”

“I want a chance of redemption; I want to make things right!” this riled him up, and he was struggling in my hold again. I budged none, and watching him turn slightly pink in the face from his failed effort. “I have blood on my hands, and my sister is in danger! I can’t….I can’t do it on my own.”

“You’re running a fool’s errand.” This made him shoot his glance up, and I held my breath to see him actively searching the shadows of my cowl. “The Creed doesn’t aid in righting wrongs here; you can’t change the past, boy, no matter how many goods you do, or how many people you kill.”

“I know that!” he inhaled sharply, and tried again, “But if I let the murderers of my sister’s father take the lives of others, then do I truly deserve to live!? To let them continue to make orphans like me? **_I _**can change that, I can stop them!”

His yelling was…getting annoying.

“What makes you different than anyone else? What makes you think that someone you had been hoarded up in jail saw potential in _you_?”

“The only man that took me in after my father died deserves more than that, whether or not I had met Bellac!” he was now forcibly yanking his arm now, and grunting in the process. I stared at him, but did nothing to lessen nor strengthen his imprisonment. “_De la Serre_ needs justice.”

**THIS IS JUSTICE**.

Ugh…what the fuck.

“.....Look at me, straight in the eyes, boy.” The air tightened, and my free hand clutched the edge of the hood. With a sweep did my red curls squirm to freedom, and burn with the sun’s core. Just when I thought I couldn’t silence this annoying human did he finally stop in all bodily functions, and catch my stare directly. His pupils shrank at the sight, and not one person from the manor made a move to back away or come closer to his rescue.

I leaned over easily, staring straight down at his five-foot-seven height, and incrementally narrowed my lids to get a good look at him. He wasn’t looking away, and didn’t make a motion to do so after a few moments.

He was serious.

And I let go, easing the tension on his arm, “……If you’re going to stay, you’re going to work for free.” His brows arched at this, his fingers curling in anticipation of my next sentence. “…Hand me the medallion.” He blinked, but rummaged through his pockets, and pulled it out. He tucked it in my palm, that I then pocketed in my own, “We will…talk more later.”

“Elysia, thank you so mu-ACK!” he motioned his feet, but he was halted right at the stretch of my arm, my hand smacking on his forehead to prevent the planned hug. “Ow, that really hurt-“

“Take him away, Charlotte, before I change my mind-“

“_Oui, oui_!” she squealed at this, and trotted her way over and linked her arm around Arno’s limp one. “Come along now, young man, we’ll get you all settled in properly. Here, here,” she beckoned the servants as they gave a swift look to me before following her. I faced the approaching, bothered Mathias, and slightly perplexed Grisier who was not too far behind.

“You changed your mind,” Mathias pointed out first, and I could tell he was doing his best not to look at me for too long.

“You don’t have to pay him,” I reminded him.

This calmed his once annoyed expression from before, and he hooked his arms behind his back tentatively, “Well, yes, of course. As you said.”

“Have Marceline prepare dinner, and make the boy run whatever chores are left; the rest of the servants should…..have the day off. I won’t be here until tonight,” I replied. He nodded at this, and left Grisier with me.

“Your sword, _Madame_,” he lifted the curved blade again, and a binder of paper in the other. I took both silently, aware of him looking where Mathias dared not to. I shifted my balance and tugged the hood over my head again where my true face hid. I met his eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile faintly, “That was nice of you.”

I said nothing, and left.

The corridor of the Parisian Brotherhood held a bombardment of murmurs, and I was quick in my stride to maneuver around the huddled bodies. I held the binder of parchments in my softly, clenched fist, and instinctively handed them to the approaching man at my right. I lifted the cup of obtained coffee with my left hand.

“Organize these for me, James,” I replied, taking a pleased sip as we rounded the corner to head inside the larger, arched room.

James was a British man with a freckled face, hair of dirty-blond threads that curled mildly underneath his hood. His bright eyes were even visible from the shadows of his buttoned, emerald hood.

"Dawn has barely cracked, and yet the pile begins." He shuffled through the papers, humming thoughtfully, "I sense you have had an eventful week thus far, impressive even." He regarded me easily, standing at six feet in his usual, shined boots, "Though I have been hearing...rumors stirring around the bureau."

“What about this time?” I replied with firmness, eying James briefly before taking another sip. We slowed our walk to take refuge in front of a bookshelf, letting a few members of the Creed walk by. “Unless it’s official, and Bellac is finally considered insane by the other Mentors.” _Or unqualified_, for always leaving me with his damn messes like always.

Like this morning.

"I'm highly doubtful of that," James rebutted, skimming the pages with carefulness, "No, from what I've gathered, Bellac is waiting for someone.”

“Do tell,” I rolled my eyes at this, already knowing where this was going.

“Claims he found a new recruit, son of a former assassin named Charles Dorian. Though where is said recruit, no one exactly knows...."

“_Oh_. Good to know.” No fucking wonder.

“Says the kid has potential,” James further added. I almost laughed.

“Bellac thinks any person has potential if he has a leash on him,” I spat next.

We reached the double doors, passing through the long, rugged pathway, and the man-made shelves that served as rows. Each space was filled with desks, and an occupied assassin, except for one that had two waiting for our arrival.

A man with straight, brunette locks darted his attention upwards, and a smile plastered easily at the sight of James and me. His dark, ocean eyes swirled with eagerness, cheeks of smooth complexion and teeth made of sea pearls themselves. Across from this man named Stephen was the other student named Clement, who was the bulkiest of the trio. A shadow of a beard rested along his jaw, and layers of dark hair of many lengths protruded out of his larger cowl. Unlike Stephen, Clement froze of our sudden approach, and swallowed while he tucked the collar of his jacket to his neck, clearly caught in the act of something it looked like-

“Oh, we interrupted something,” James scoffed in amusement.

Both males were clearly occupied with the small kitty laying on the table, Clement having waved a small feather on top of its prying paws before jamming it in his shirt. Stephen wiggled its flicking tail, undeterred of playing with Clement’s newly, acquired pet.

“You’ve brought Eugene again,” I announced, refusing to put down my nitid cup for the fear of having the feline grapple at it.

"Pardon, he has been..._how do you say...he's been clawing at everything in my place if I leave him alone for too long_?" Clement looked to James for affirmation.

"_I think the word you're attempting to refer is he's_ temperamental." James teased, flapping the binder of _very important documents (**JAMES**)_ at the tiny cat, "_Perhaps he's grown fond of being at the center of attention. It looks like you dot on him far too much, Clement_."

"_Maybe, maybe he's jealous of my older cat_."

"_Maybe indeed_." James settled in an open chair comfortably, overlooking Stephen who had moved his attention to the new mascot, "And you're certainly not helping this cat's ego either, Stephen."

Stephen was the oddest of the bunch, for several reasons. He spoke in a free-form English tone, and when I meant free-form, I mean I don’t understand half of what he’s saying when he gets in his….zone. Despite James being the eldest of the group, Stephen was mature in a lot of other ways that surpassed everyone else. He was concise and to the point, and his dexterity of following every command was mystifying. However, language barriers prevented him from achieving the level James had; not that he minded it, but I could tell he was lost in translation for most of the things Clement stated.

"Hey, this kitten here needs all the love! _All of it_." Stephen didn't even look up from using the cat's tail to give him a mustache, "Besides, I've met much worse egotistical cats before, and this little one has nothing on him."

I was working with children.

I cleared my throat abruptly, even the kitty tore away from the apprentices, and mashed itself against Clement’s chest, “I want updates of the missions that were carried out yesterday. James?”

“Ah, yes, hmm…” he grasped the folded document from his own coat, and pulled it out to lay it on the table in full. His polished glove moved along the map he had procured, “The target of spies have been dealt with; however, I had a snag, and it turns out there were more members rooted with the main culprit.”

“Go on.”

“One was in the far south of Paris, while the other was stationed in the far north-west, near the fields. He was awaiting his coach, but it was clear that he couldn’t make it. These were on him,” he pushed the roll he had attached to his waist.

“Good,” I nodded, and took the papers to pocket on my belt, dodging the swiping claw that threatened to use them as a toy. I then turned to Clement, and formulated my words, “ _And what of the mission with you_? “

"_Austrian spies have been on the move lately, swarming greatly around the Palace de Luxemborg in recent days,_” he recalled, and purchased his work papers (notably scratched at the corners)_, “We uncovered a plot to assassinate a political figure at nightfall. With the notes we gathered, I managed to get both a confession, locations of other associates, and this feather from the man's corpse once I was finished with him._" Clement played with said feather, allowing his little feline friend victory at snatching it.

I did my best to ignore the small beast, and moved my attention to the lighter brunette, “And what of you?”

"There's been a lot of hoarders of food lately, I've been trying to find the main source." Stephen reported, and kept his eyes at mine as if he had not been playing foolishly a moment ago. His folder was already at the corner, fulfilled and packed neatly, "I'll also need to borrow James for some recon at some point, as my French isn't up to par."

“The crowd’s are becoming restless; at the rate this is going…” James sighed, his fingers clasping the bridge of his nose. “Elysia, can I ask something of you?”

“Depends on what it is,” I answered, collecting all the folders and hooking them in my hold, “You might as well ask.”

“Stephen has been on hoarder missions for the past two months, and with each new update, it only seems to be growing worse-“ James scratched at his lean neck at this, slightly pouting, “May it be possible that you bring this…up to the council-“

“You actually think-“ I halted when James sighed loudly.

“I _know_, I’m already prepared for the disappointment….but can you?”

“…..Is this really important to you?” He was becoming bothersome with this, again.

"I believe it’s important to the people starving out to the streets, or the businesses that are being ransacked by those very same people spinning some mystified tale that the monarchy is hoarding food." He enunciated boldly, garnering Stephen and Clement’s attention, "Whether it'd even make a difference is up to debate, but at least putting the effort to vanquish this ludicrous propaganda is worth our effort."

At this did Stephen's hands slowly proceed to play with the cat yet again, eyes bouncing back and forth between us, his eyebrows furrowing, "Customs here are so strange; why do we have to bring it up with the council? They never agree with each other anyways, wouldn't it be better to just do it if we have the people for it?"

I…honestly couldn’t have put it to better words, but it would be dangerous to agree with Stephen so openly about it. He was...still on borderline acceptance with the Parisian Brotherhood, and Clement was no better in his _permanent_ settlement under my supervision; if anything suspicious or out of line were to come out....even James wouldn’t stand a chance to stay.

The divided council would take the chance to take immediate action among their circle if it meant being sabotaged; it was nothing but a circus compared to.....Ezio’s-

**You should really consider it.**

**How easy would it be.**

**To just kill them all.**

And there, the coffee suddenly turned sour. I positioned the cup down, and swallowed whatever I had left in my mouth forcefully.

**We could do it all over again.**

**How good would that feel?**

“....I’ll do what I can, and make note of it to them,” I answered instead. I nodded in their general direction, “_James has the next missions at hand; as usual, plan accordingly, and report to me tomorrow with your findings. You’re dismissed_.” And with that I left the library, and begrudgingly made my trek up to the main heart of the chambers where the Entrance Hall awaited.

A place I once remembered a long time ago.

**He was here once upon a time.**

What the hell….why today?

“_Good morning_, Elysia.”

I averted my look to the left, a woman wearing soft, earthy tones addressing me with a formal nod.

I greeted her back, “Sophie.”

Her warm eyes indicated she actually got sleep this time around; her wavy hair was tucked in a neat bun behind her head, and a small scarf of faded magenta settled at the top of her buttoned chest. Not her usual tone to greet me so openly, but I figured she had a lot on her plate the past month.

“_Shall we make our way_?” she raised a gloved hand.

“_I will follow_.”

A pair of circular staircases ascended to the second floor, where linen, white banners hung from the brick walls. Lit, secured torches were set along the stone rim floor, guiding the way; a stone rail prevented the network of descending bodies from toppling over as we cut past them. Then came the newly furnished, Romanesque-stone archway that pooled in the blood-red rug. Swirling columns of black and white-spotted marble supported the painted vault above, a depiction of heavenly clouds opening to what appeared to be a bright light in the center. Chandeliers led down the aisle with several chairs and fireplaces on the right side, while the Intelligence Room remained on the left behind several piers. I removed my attention from there, and passed in-between the arcades at the end, equally and symmetrically decorated with spiraling, stone columns and a harvest of candles.

The apse was mostly been secured of wanderers. Desks were arranged in the middle in a way that created an opening walking into it, and that’s where Sophie and I found ourselves in the eyes of the rest of the council. The room battled between a fiery and cool atmosphere, with the candles and main chandelier above trying to imitate the sun, then the oceanic color of the cavern behind the arched cloisters-

**What a nice party that was.**

**It’s a shame.**

“_Madame Sophie, and Elysia_.”

The four other men stood to their feet, and it was not surprising that Sophie and I found ourselves in this position on several occasions. Mostly on other pressing matters that didn’t involve running into each other coincidentally in the hall.

Mirabeau was the shortest, but the leader of the Parisian Brotherhood in this century. He fancied strategical approaches that favored in his views, and the occasional cup of red wine that was stashed behind a particular bookshelf no one else had knowledge of. His worn cape was set on his usual, padded chair, and a black vest that buttoned at the way down to his belly was set on top of an itchy-looking blouse. He adjusted the forest of ruffles on his neck to proper adequacy, though I gave him ten minutes before they became undone again.

The other man on his left was another I particularly didn’t get along with, because Quemar was a….meticulous human being. If Quemar was fond of anything, it was wearing a whole coat of leather, keeping his graying hair slicked back, and always finding an excuse to make himself look the most rational out of everyone; his cane-sword was settled on his rimmed seat, and he always had this twitch to always check it was there with a tap of his knuckles. Like now.

After the empty seat that belonged to Sophie was a blessed image of Guillaume Beylier, a Saint-Domingue native that took his free-world views into Paris and did much to support people of color. He was never one to be unkept and disordered, and wore medallions of honor along the leather of his open vest. He had freshly trimmed his low-cut hair, and his mustache lifted in appreciation of our arrival.

“Miss me?” And last was…………….Bellac.

A shaggy-looking assassin, with a paled, azure outfit that really made his black hair look staggering. A white belt cut across his chest, flaunting out his large coat outwards from how tight he had put it. His gloved, left hand remained on his side, while his bare right lifted, and waved briskly at my direction. Unlike Beylier, his goatee was kept however he felt like depending on the day, though he felt somewhat merciful on cutting most of it on his first day back at the Creed.

“We welcome you back, Bellac,” the conciliating Sophie was the first to reply, because she immediately knew of my hesitation to even acknowledge his presence. “Elysia agrees.”

“Funny, I haven’t heard her say it,” he goaded, and I was already on the verge of flipping the table to smack him with it.

“I’m sure you’ve already gotten your welcome party, don’t want to spoil you,” I announced heatedly, and Sophie took it rather than any other insult I might have thrown.

“Pleasantries can be touched upon later,” Mirabeau agreed, and he gestured. “Sit, so we may begin.”

I hauled my ass from Sophie, who gave me that look. You know the one: _Don’t do something you’ll regret, or Quemar will start again_. If there was anyone that I ever hated more than Quemar, the abhorrent Bellac was on the verge being on my kill-list.

One day.

The meeting went as planned, though the beginning of it had to mostly with Quemar’s updates on his recordings and recons of Templar movements. Mireau grew concerned of such unknown ambitions, muttering to himself mostly on the next course of action while Quemar intensified the worry (because, again, he had to look the most human out of everyone). Mirabeau agreed, and suggested a team to be sent out to possible locations and contacts for the next week.

Beylier’s missions were that from the lower districts of Paris, and the outbreaks of angry rabbles made it much harder acquire his needed information. He was trying to grow a network with the freed slaves, and Mirabeau was heavily interested in the idea. He…didn’t add much to it though, circumspect of providing more aid but encouraging for Beylier to use the resources he already had. This set Beylier to silently accept the statement, but I knew the colored man was displeased of said outcome.

“And what of your assassins, Elysia?” Mirabeau requested. I stood up at this, and handed him the binders I had collected prior.

“They have finished their tasks, as expected,” I replied. “Though…I do have one concern.” This lured the stares of the council.

“Proceed.”

“From the intel my assassins have gathered, the penurious crowds are growing restless by the day; it is believed that false word is being spread across the sectors, to purposely draw the attention elsewhere rather than where it needs to be,” I recited.

“Believed?” Quemar’s censorious tone was the first to cut in, signaling his hand to me, “You’re not certain?”

“My student, Stephen, has been on a trail, and both James and Clement confirm this,” I defended. “All I ask is more support, for other teams to-“

“Why must we conform to what your student thinks is best, where he has not decided to conform to our Creed?” Quemar was on his feet now, steadying himself with a hand on the desk, the other hooked behind his back. My eyes shot to his, but he enlivened the battle, “He needs to gather more evidence, before we even consider the fact.”

“It’s been two months, what more evidence do you need?” I rebutted, indicating to the binder Mirabeau collected from me. “I have hard indication of food shortages while you only have assumptions of Templar movements; you must be high up on your damn chair to think you’re the only one who has pressing matters.”

“Pressing matters involve actions against the Creed,” Bellac was next to act, and set his sights on me when I refused to look his way. “Templars are the very definition of it, and it’s essential to extirpate them all; we can’t save everyone, and starting from the high ground downward is the way to go. Get rid of the elites to save the people.”

“Look how far that’s gotten us,” I snapped my attention to him, because damn Bellac if he thinks he could get the last word in. I motioned my way over, and stood across from his seated, relaxed position, “While you were sitting your ass in a prison cell for more than six months, the rest of us had to deal with the chaos outside.”

“And what progress have you made with your freedom, Elysia?”

That did it.

**Kill him.**

**Kill him.**

**Kill him.**

My fingers curled, and what threatened to sharpen dug into my palm. The lines along Bellac’s face heightened in view, I could literally see the pores of his skin if I bothered to. Instead I kept my churlish eyes on him, and the way his pupils expanded and shrunk when he advantageously hunted mine.

“Elysia, if I may,” Mirabeau shifted the room, but I refused to look his way.

“Mentor wants your attention, Elysia,” Bellac goaded once more, and nodded his head in Mirabeau’s direction. The corner of his lip stretched to that of a faint sneer, “Best do what you’re told.”

**Kill him.**

**Kill him.**

**Kill him.**

I turned….eventually.

Mirabeau cleared his throat, and again spoke clearly, “What you speak is of upmost concern for the populace, but it will have to hold for now. I have….a certain task for you, and your team. It’s short notice, but I could not think of anyone else to carry this out.” Nice save, old man.

I swallowed the fire on my tongue, stuffing my bloodied hand in my pocket where it could heal in secret, “And that is?”

“A woman by the name of Anne-Josèphe is rallying a group to commence a march,” Mirabeau replied, setting his pile of folders aside. “It is said to be a Women’s March, and they are heading all the way to Versailles; I would like to assign this to you, as well as Sophie to ensure this goes as planned.”

“My apologies, Mentor,” Sophie stood at this, and address her hand in his direction, “I have already an assigned task, and my contact is bound to-“

“I will have that rearranged, and Bellac will be more than fitting to finish your mission,” Mirabeau adjusted his ruffle, and I could have sworn I saw Sophie almost kick the desk’s leg underneath her.

It was well known Sophie had written essays upon essays about the abolishment of slavery and acts for feminism happening in France’s general public. She made it no secret that she was passionate in her pamphlets, and no doubt in criticizing the oppression of the Third Estate.

But what Mirabeau was asking was an insult to her.

She acquiesced in his decision, and sat down, simmering. I followed suite, and we both shared a stare that spoke many truths all at once: _It’s because we’re women_.

“Bellac,” Mirabeau changed tactics, and the black-haired male smiled fully in his direction, “We have word that you have recruited a new assassin?”

“Yes, the boy will show up, I’m positive,” Bellac replied, scratching the leg of the table we shared with the tip of his boot. “Arno shows promise, and his lineage shows that; Charles Dorian was the best assassin I’ve come to known in the entirety of my life. It would be an insult not to suggest his only son.”

“And where is he now?” I quipped; I need to soothe my rage in some way. “If he’s so great, then you should’ve brought him the minute you had the chance.”

"Boy needs to come to grips about the choices for himself. He's spent damn near his whole life without even knowing about the Templars and Assassins to even be motivated to our cause." Bellac held back a scowl, crossing his arms firmly to his chest, "That damn _De la Serre_ had 'im nearly brainwashed."

_Oh_. This was new.

"I highly doubt that was Francois intentions, Bellac." Mirabeau firmly stated, lifting his gaze, "After all, he took him in to raise him when no one else would."

Bellac’s answer was acrid, "What a fucking mistake that was.”

_Opportunity struck_.

He really wanted this Arno boy, didn’t he?

Who happened to be under my roof?

And by the gods….I couldn’t help but smile. _Legit _smile.

“It appears Elysia has had a change of heart,” Mirabeau cheered with gusto, and it alerted all four council members to look my way. Even then, it was so hard not to hide it, and I simply sat back, and remained quiet for the rest of the meeting. “Let us continue.”

Though at some point, Bellac had the gall, and whispered to me when the other three had been occupied.

“What are you smilin’ on about?” he leered, bothered of this huge secret he was unaware of.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I smirked.

Bellac made a disgruntled face, ambushed by the positive energy I was beaming. Beylier leaned slightly forward in his chair, trying to make eye-contact with me at the very sight of it. Quemar, confused by the atmosphere, lowered the tea-cup from his lips hesitantly. He only took a sip after Sophie begrudgingly took a drink from hers, the scowl still present on her lips. Mirabeau, oblivious to the antics of the table moved the conversation along.

Night had approached steadily over time, and Sophie was more than curious to ask what had been on her mind this whole time as we were finally alone, going over the plans of our uncompromising assignment.

“You were suddenly in a cheerful mood,” she started with as I aided her with the map marked with the Versailles route the women would be taking. “May I ask why?”

“I’m just……really proud of Charlotte,” a satisfied smile took my face hostage, and clearly it wasn’t a sight Sophie was used to when she tilted her head curiously. God, I could give Charlotte a hug if I wanted, for giving me the greatest gift of all: Arno Dorian, Bellac’s prized recruit he was longing to bring.

“The owner of your café?”

“Yes, the one and only,” I affirmed.

"That's.....peculiar if I may say." Sophie tenderly approached the subject, "You haven't spoken highly of her before...has the café recently been doing well?"

“It’s been holding up, but I fear with what might come, thinking about it….” I hummed thoughtfully, scratching at the spine of a book. “I’m….sorry about the changed assignment. We should’ve seen it from a mile away.”

Sophie rolled her eyes at this, digging a colored needle along the intended path to Versailles, "It still comes to baffle me upon this time and age. You would think we have come to an age of enlightenment but no, we've only strayed further by willful ignorance."

“You have no idea how right you are,” I confirmed, rubbing an eye.

She took notice, and tucked the quill away, “You best go home, Elysia. I will take it from here.”

“This is a lot to go over….” I looked to her, seeing her eyes were already trancing at the hundreds of documents we had been mulling around. “Leave some for me in the morning, at least.”

“You make it sound like this is a first,” she chuckled tiredly at this, and I genuinely felt annoyed for Sophie. All that work, and Mirabeau would be the one to take the credit for all her sleepless nights.

“Sophie…”

“Yes, Elysia?”

**Don’t get attached.**

**Don’t make that mistake again.**

“Don’t….overwork yourself.”

She blinked gently at this, but nodded solemnly, “I’ll do my best. Good night, Elysia.”

Looks like Sophie’s warm welcome was going to be short-lived.

Whatever students remained went undisturbed in their gatherings as I passed the bottom floor. My feet easily maneuvered through the long corridor, where I naturally reached a section of stacked parchments, and pulled out the ones that corresponded to my needs.

“Mentor?” My tense shoulders lessened when I recognized the voice belonging to James. I had felt someone staring at me.

“I thought you were gone for the day.”

"I was catching up on organizing the notes you had given to me earlier," James admitted, waving at the parchment tower at his side. He swayed around the loads of books upon his left, taking three strides to reach me, "I had sent Stephen and Clement to investigate another lead on his Hoarders case in the afternoon, I'm hoping to find any anomalies from what we know thus far...." At this did my expression shift. He studied it well, "And I'm presuming the meeting didn't go as intended."

“Mirabeau has given us another assignment, so today’s mission might have been a waste,” I announced, tossing my booklet on the spare table of the moderate-sized cubicle. James watched it, brows furrowed of the abrupt news. “Quemar and Bellac only made it irritable to be in the room. I’m surprised Beylier didn’t fight about it.”

"Quemar is a lawyer in trade; often times I believe he agrees with Bellac for the betterment of his own views then of others." James observed with careful consideration, scanning about the library for those that could overhear us, "It's what I don't particularly find practical here in Paris; everyone needs to have an opinion, discussion, arguments, while that's all good and may in expressing free thought and will....it's getting us nowhere in a time where we need desperate leadership.”

“At the rate this is going, they’re doing nothing but shooting their own foot again,” I ignored James’ perplexed expression at this.

The young man collected one of the piling books, organizing it into place, keeping three others in his arms, "And what is this mission…?"

“Walk with me.”

We took the streets with ease, all most left abandoned from this time of night. We arrived to the café’s with little interruption, but the jingling of my keys was enough to garner attention from the Office. I could immediately hear the sound of Charlotte’s slippers heading to the café’s front door of where we were. When I opened it did she wrap the robe around her sleeping gown properly, candlelight in hand.

“Oh…it’s just you dear- James!” her eyes widened, and she jiggled herself over with glee and blushed when he bowed his head. “James o’ boy, I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” she went forward, and squished his cheek excitedly.

“Heh, I was here only last week, Charlotte,” James chuckled, removing his hood to properly see her, “Sorry for the late intrusion.”

“Nonsense, it’s been ages,” she replied, and wagged her finger toward me next, “Shame that you don’t bring them often.”

“You pamper them like children,” I rolled my eyes, and went to the nearest table residing against the far wall, setting our parchments down. “Why are you up so late, Charlotte?”

“Mathias is worried about the finances, and has been smoking like a chimney,” she slumped her shoulders. “I didn’t think he would complain for so long.”

“I’ll get paid soon, so tell him to go to sleep.” I paused, “….The boy?”

“Sleep and sound in his new room,” she replied, her eyes brimming in delight when I directly asked for his well-being. _If only you knew_. “I didn’t think you’d be so interested in Arno’s wellbeing.”

“I don’t want him wandering off, is all,” I defended. “Good night, Charlotte.” She waved a lazy hand at this, and her feet padded away from earshot.

"Oh?" James scantly scanned my face once we were alone, "And who is this 'Arno'?"

"Someone," I responded firmly, taking a seat and gesturing him to follow. The British man sat across easily, drumming his fingers in counts of six.

“Well?”

“….Do you really want an answer?” I smiled.

"........I am positively curious now that you're smiling." James answered after a pause, incredulously watching, "If I am to be your eyes and ears, then I should be somewhat aware of what has you so invested." If I had to trust anyone in this city….James was close enough.

The way I acquired him as my first apprentice was….somewhat funny, and everything lucky. Originally, he had derived from the main Brotherhood in London, the heart of Britain much like how Paris was for France. Initially, he was to be under the study of Bellac, and I was unclear on how James even knew of my name; he was an intuitive and clever assassin, and Bellac liked that.

Unfortunate for Bellac, James had other plans, and stated his needs the moment he had the chance.

_“I wish to study under Council Member Elysia,” he clearly replied upon the arrival of the council members._

_Both Mirabeau and Bellac exchanged a look, though Bellac emphatically smiled at the sudden declaration, wondering if he had heard correctly. _

_“Madame Elysia is not….under any jurisdiction to take any students at this time,” Mirabeau replied, and cleared his throat to dissuade the tension the room gathered. “May I ask why this request?”_

_“I find that Madame Elysia pertains to goals that I have in mind.” James treaded the next thought with little regard, “I need to learn the very mechanisms of this organization, from both a standpoint that has been integrated within and still has enough of a voice to recognize what can and should be fixed from an outside perceptive.” _

_“And do you feel Master Bellac would not fit in this?” _

_“….If I may be frank,” James didn’t mince his words, “Bellac’s current mission is to throw himself to half of the prisons in France in order to find some chicken scratch that previous generations of assassins might have left. Dead ones. I am not entirely sure what good those messages would be to our current generation. To be fair, I would like to focus on the present matters and not stick my head in the gutters, thank you very much.”_

_Beylier almost choked on his tea, while Quemar and Sophie stared incredulously in the young man’s direction. Needless to say, Bellac left without another word, and tried not to slam the door on his way out. _

_“Well….what do you think of this, Elysia?” Mirabeau looked my way._

_My beaming grin said it all._

“You’re aware Bellac has mentioned he has found a new recruit,” it wasn’t a question.

"Yes," James blinked at the subject, "The one that hasn't shown up to the bureau yet....are you suggesting you know who's the recruit?"

“Maybe I do.” At that I snuck my fingers into my pocket, and pulled out the bronze, gold-dipped coin. I twirled it once, and at that my grin flourished, “Maybe he’s under this very roof. Recognize this?”

James didn't say a word, instead briskly snatching the medallion and holding it up intricately up to examine properly. After a moment, “This is Bellac’s. The recruit, he's here?"

“And he has no idea,” I chuckled at this, and found myself nearly laying back on the cushioned seat. “I am…….truly happy, right now.”

"I...am astounded at the sort of luck you have found yourself in." James bemused, gingerly placing the coin down at a tap of three, "That leads me to my next question then; what are you doing with the boy? Why is he here in the cafe of all places?"

“Free labor, right now. But who knows, perhaps I’ll make an assassin for the sake of throwing it in Bellac’s face. It sure sounds inviting,” I’m petty, sue me.

"It sounds to be the strategic placement to start a war with him." James summarized, rotating the coin underneath his finger, "A battle you already have leverage on. What is he like? Young? I had heard he was the son of an assassin who passed some years ago."

“He’s stubborn…and loud,” I took a moment, and debated (for half a second) whether this was a good idea or not. “Barely in his twenties. Has a large vendetta for…..revenge, some shit like that.”

"Oh. That is troublesome, but he is still young so.....you can say its due to inexperience of sorting and managing his emotions." James assessed, humming. He thought a moment on what else to ask, "I could only wonder then....but enough of that. Do you think he's worth teaching if the opportunity is brought up?"

“From what I’ve gathered, and what Bellac revealed in the assembly, it’s safe to say that he has no idea what he’s getting himself into joining the Creed,” I replied quietly. I rested my chin on my folded arms, giving the café a quick look, certain that a creak echoed from the stairs. “Worth is a matter of how truly devoted he is.”

"Then again, only through an open opportunity will we see if he truly is." James settled properly in his seat, observing the empty cafe, "Perhaps he does...but we would never know if not by seeing firsthand what he does."

“Maybe. So, we’ll go over the new assignment tomorrow morning, but here’s a brief explanation.” I pulled out a spare map for the two of us to have a proper visual. “It commences here, and leads all the way here.”

“All the way, to Versailles?” James’ brows arched, and he made a low whistle. “That’s a good five hours.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“What makes you so reluctant to do this?” he genuinely asked.

“Mirabeau volunteered us, along with Sophie, as if we didn’t already have our own missions to deal with,” my fingers found my forehead, and slowly did they massage the tension that manifested there. “She also opposed attending the march; Mirabeau is only doing it for the sake of political means, not for the sake of actually helping women. How _honorable_ do you think that would make him look if he did it so willingly?”

"Fantastic," James knocked on the table six times (that jinx of him), then sat back in his seat, humming, "When is this march being organized for?"

"Soon, in the next two or three days."

"Not much for recon then," he sighed. "We'll have to bite the bullet then for when our potential suppressors might confront us."

“Unfortunately, whatever it may be,” I agreed, reaching to tuck in the daring, red strand.

"To a successful march, then.” And James left after a good two hours, with a promise of a late start tomorrow. He stared a bit after I suggested it, but didn’t fight it and thanked me for the mercy.

Now, I remained alone, with freshly brewed coffee in one hand and a quill in the others. But it wasn’t long that I heard the creak on the stairs again, and my eyes shifted to that where the café’s back door was. I halted all penmanship and kept my shadowed eyes to the entryway. It was eerily silent, and all it took was a blink for my eyes to adjust immediately to the dark, and see the lock of hair peeking over the door’s frame.

“I see you, boy.”

His toes locked onto the wood, but he relented, and Arno showed himself from his hiding spot. He stepped out with caution, fidgeting with the sleeve of his new blouse, unsure of what to do with his other hand. I set the pen down, took a sip from my cup, and gestured to the empty padding of the seat across from me when he finally came beside the table.

“You might as well sit.”

Arno did so, and I could tell whatever confidence he had before melted, being unclear of how to present himself from being discovered. Though, I waited and folded my arms on the table, eying him closely.

After a moment, he began, “You said we could talk later.”

“I did.”

“….Later is….now.”

“It is,” I answered.

"So...would you be able to answer my questions then?"

"Depends on what the questions are,” I leveled my gaze.

He inhaled, and didn’t look away, "I want to know more about this....war. Between the Assassins and Templars."

“You sure you want to know?” I questioned softly, and he was taken aback of my acceptance. “Once you know it all, it’ll be hard for you to leave it.”

His eyes casted along the table, and for a second, a frown enraptured his face. As if everything I had said would change his life.

_Little did we know…it would change the both of us forever._

“I do. Tell me everything.”

I poured a second cup, and placed it before him, never looking away, “Then, let’s get started.”


	4. Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yo yo yo. 
> 
> Taking this out a few days early because life's been kicking me relentlessly....and I'm going to kick it back twice as hard this coming month. So I won't have time next week booooooo.
> 
> Once again, thank you for your remarkable patience, and hopefully you enjoy this new chapter. Until next time, take care and see you again soon. Thanks to my co-writers for helping me out, ya'll the dream team <3
> 
> -Keys

**AND I DIED.**

Shitty dream. Again.

Charlotte’s bombing laughter didn’t lessen the importunate headache swelling along my forehead. Ugh, why was she in such a good mood?

It all changed once that fatuous boy arrived.

**Welcome to your life.**

The polished, wooden floor swirled and swayed; like I had misplaced my motor skills, and my feet were only walking by pure will alone. The round table of the bedroom thudded against my hip unexpectedly, and a mere second later it was on the ground; a spillage of stacked papers and dried quills reigned free, speckles of leftover coffee splattering the rolling parchments. An overwhelming buzz caked my face, and I reached up to rub it clean. I felt them; canines slightly piercing into my palm at the carelessness of my swipe. The crimson droplets that protruded through my flesh heightened in view, yet the iron smell reached me first.

“Elysia, dear!” The knock vibrated the whole room, the bon vivant Charlotte clearly delighted this morning. I looked over with an unamused glance, knowing full well she couldn’t see me through the oak. “_Breakfast is ready! Come down_.”

“…_Give me a minute_.” The hood was good enough to conceal most of my face, and I didn’t think much of doing more when I made my way down the stairs fully dressed. The aroma of cooked meat and eggs layered the room, though some of the warm atmosphere slithered to ice when I neared with each step.

“Elysia, here, here,” Charlotte excitedly waved me over. Grisier and the eldest servant, Marceline were seated; two decent sized tables were pushed together to host the breakfast brunch that was served. Yet, both stilled when I made my way over, except for Charlotte who was either clueless or……no, that was it.

“You must take a bite of this, it’s delicious,” she insisted with a beam. The sound of chewing quieted among the group, Marceline letting her ruffle headpiece cloak her view from me. Grisier minded his own business, and merely picked at his food with quiet taps of his fork.

I stared at Charlotte instead, “I think I’ll pass.”

“A little food wouldn’t hurt anyone.” His voice alone was enough to grind my teeth together. Approaching was the neatly shaven Arno, an empty plate in his hand with only one of his sleeves rolled to his elbow. He met my stare yet again, and it didn’t wait for me to answer. He served what was left; the way he scooped up the steamed vegetables and the way his wrist rolled delicately told me this wasn’t the first time he had done this sort of chore. I wasn’t the only one who noticed, considering the servants weren’t needed as much now and Mathias looked cheerier than before. Which wasn’t much, I might add, but it was enough to garner my attention.

For a boy who had been in prison for quite some time…it was a little odd he didn’t forget his manners. Too bad Bellac couldn’t learn from him either; they were both annoyingly inadequate.

Arno stepped around Charlotte’s seat with the plate in his grasp. He stood beside me, and held out the prepared meal to me.

“Are you honestly going to pass up a good meal? Made by yours truly?” he smirked at this, and wiggled the silver a bit as his free hand rested on his chest brazenly. Charlotte was delighted of the gesture, but I felt Grisier and Marceline _waiting_. Anticipating. “Well?”

**Humans are so predictable**.

I said nothing, and merely strode around to reach the serving counter. There I collected the prepared cup of coffee, and took my leave to the side doors leading to the entrance’s courtyard, ignoring the entire group. The ombre sky meshed gray with tangy oranges and thinned clouds, indicating the rise of the early morning. A strong smell of wet stone hit my nostrils, and I did my best to leave it lingering.

“H-Hey, hold on a second-“ Arno’s voice trailed behind, and my steadfast pace quickened. However-

“Ahh, Madame Elysia.” Beating Arno to the punch was Mathias who had been arriving the minute I was underneath the stone archway, leather binder tucked neatly in his arm and a bag of pastry he had gotten for breakfast. “Taking your leave already?”

“Yes. Today I shall grab payment for the manor, so make note of any repairs we need to make,” I added, and gestured my head to Arno who blinked of my uncalled suggestion, “Make use of his labor while you can.”

“Actually, Elysia, I’d rather-“

“The well does need some soaking and brushing, he hasn’t gotten to that yet,” Mathias hummed considerately, rubbing his chin with the binder clutched tightly to his ruffled-adorned chest. “And the attic needs some sweeping, hasn’t gotten to that either….”

“Uh….excuse me-“

“Sounds like an eventful day,” I flatly responded.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, correct?” Mathias asked, and I nodded to confirm. “I won’t see you later this evening but if anything needs to be ordered, be mindful to have Grisier prepare whatever it is you need and I will make do with the finances.”

“Then if you don’t require anything else, I’ll be going,” I finished.

“Elysia, I **must** talk to you.” The firmness of Arno’s tone averted our attention, and he took it as a sign to continue, “It’s about….what we talked the other night.” His eyes caught mine, even from within my hood. He was…. persistent.

Mathias cleared his throat at this, shifting his boot to fix his unkept pant leg, “I shall leave you two then,” and strode into the manor where he naturally gravitated to the Study. I turned my eyes to the dark-haired brunette, adjusting the edge of my cowl swiftly.

“I’m not sure what else there is to say,” I decided to start. “I answered all the questions you had regarding the Creed.”

He parted his arms open, a small, relieved smile on his face, “Yes you did. So, when do I start?”

………I scoffed, “Excuse me?”

He blinked briefly, but his mood shifted when he realized I was giving him an incredulous look, “My part in the Creed. When does it happen?”

“For you? Never.”

His eyes widened, appalled, “W-What? Why not?”

“You’re a rash, impulsive child,” I merely replied, unfazed of his offended stare, the corner of his lips twitching along with the crease of a brow. “Even I was to even consider it, it would take you months to reach any kind of adequate training.”

“If it’s training that’s needed, Bellac already taught me!” Arno cemented, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at this, one hand instinctively gripping my hip to steady myself, “I know plenty!” Gods, what other bullshit did the assassin feed to him?

“Bellac taught you only what you needed to have in a jail cell,” I stepped forward, peering at him from the mere inches I won over with, “You’re not equipped with the decent skills you need to stay alive outside. You’re nowhere near an apprentice level.”

He gritted his teeth at this, and whether it was madness or….something else, “I would have to disagree.”

“You had a sprained arm when you arrived here, and no doubt took a significant fall on top of it,” I retorted yet again, his face still and unmoved. “No weapons, no currency, much less an idea of where to go or how to achieve it. You think cleaning the manor, getting on Charlotte’s good side, serving _me_ a meal will grant you everything you wish? You’re sadly mistaken-“ I took another step, and Arno’s defense fell one foot back, “That’s not how life works.”

“Then, what will it take?” he was insistent. As if everything I said went out one ear and out the other.

I thought for a moment, tilting my head slightly to the sky, insouciant eyes still on him, “….Maybe I’ll reconsider…”

“Uh huh?” his eyes grew hopeful.

“In five more months.”

He locked his teeth behind his mouth, “….Harsh.”

“I believe you have chores to do,” I finished, seeing his face contort to annoyance when I waved my hand. “Go.” His nostrils flared at this, and for a moment I didn’t think he would move from how unrelenting his glare was. Yet, his feet pulled him away, and he stormed into the manor with swinging arms.

“_Who does that woman think she is_?” he muttered in French.

I left with that.

The desk at my station was stacked; it didn’t surprise me, though what did were the last few materials regarding the Women’s March. Damn, more? Sophie had taken it upon herself to finish most of the finalized documents, and had laid a plan for me to look forward to. I glanced over to her own space across, seeing it vandalized with towers of her own chaos but no Sophie. Nevertheless, I collected my things and occupied my attention to the filings at the Library in the Parisian Brotherhood’s east wing.

The Library was kept to a minimum of noise this morning, followed with the sound of turning, ancient parchments, the corners of some curling in naked and gloved fingers alike. Scratches of quills invaded blank pages with the addition of soft thuds when books were put away. I utilized what I could of it until the natural flow of French tongues invaded the aisles and cubicles.

My fingers clamped securely within the confinements of my hood, rubbing roughly at the maroon scarf. I concentrated heavily on the thousands of letters and words before me, exhausting myself to correct any mistake I might have made. Soon the cup of coffee provided in the bureau was depleting as the hours ticked. One last swing and I was out of the liquid (again), but my mind was barely commencing the onslaught.

**You still keep it.**

**Why is that.**

I clattered the cup down, again snaking my hand into my hood to hold the pressure there.

**When all they did was leave you to face the future on your own?**

It was unlike the Twilight to be so persistent as of late.

Bellac’s antithetical aura wasn’t new. He always had an issue of bringing the worst of me out, and it was no secret from our quarrels that we detested one another. But….I had been around Bellac for long periods of time before, and from what I recollected, I was composed, far more composed than this. I could actually be in the same room with him without having a murderous scene play out in my head, yet the other day I wanted nothing more than to slaughter everyone in the very room.

_CLINK._

When that boy….when he chucked the medallion at me.

No….that would be utter nonsense. There was no way this stubborn, bloody boy would give me that reaction from merely following me. I had known him for a mere couple of days, much less have actually spent a decent amount of time with him. It was becoming somewhat irrational I would accept such a theory just because of the fact I couldn’t stand him. So…what then? What was bringing this bestial sensation out of me….again?

“God damn it…” I hissed, trying to shake away the dark mist collecting at my shoulders.

“’Sup, Red.”

**Doesn’t that sound familiar?**

UGGGHH.

My fingers parted to let my gold eyes scan the two figures approaching; Stephen waving his arm across cheerfully while Clement tried to hide Eugene in his coat again.

"_Morning, mentor_." Clement shifted his shoulders back, ignoring the flicking tail that popped from the collar of his coat. He fixed it accordingly, though he took a moment to address my look, "_Did we come at a bad time_?"

**We’re still here. So you’re not alone anymore.**

“Uh….no, sit,” I gestured to the two empty seats across from me, sliding the occupied parchment a bit to the side. Stephen sat first, Clement taking the edge. I straightened in my seat….and found myself somewhat tongue-tied on how to start. Where was James? He made this a lot easier.

“Report? _The….update_?” I rummaged the words, “From James.”

Stephen sighed and stretched his upper body onto the table, "I've found where a main source of the hoarding is coming from, but the rumors that I'm hearing are difficult to understand without knowing the language. French is hard and I hate it.” Stephen blew his bangs from his face, slumping his chin in his curled fist.

Clement drew stiff at the awkward start, his gaze sliding over to Stephen briefly before reluctantly pulling to mine. Despite being the bulkier of the group, I sensed his timid nature well; both men responded well with James, and it was obvious he was the crutch they both needed to communicate smoothly in this language barrier. And mine too, sometimes.

But Clement was not one to back down from a challenge, and unfolded his given parchment from his belt pocket. It spread it across the table, and folded his hands together.

"_I've narrowed it to the docks. There has been reportings here....here....and here.” _I nodded. He continued, “_Met with some fishermen that claims they had seen someone slipping out with bags worth towards one of the mansions nearby..._" I pieced together what I could, but Clement picked up my conflicting mind almost immediately, and Stephen’s obvious confusion cemented his pause. Clement mustered what he could, abashed when he finished, "Read it here....that's all."

“Uh….good, good.” I took the pieces from both, and set them on a separate pile near mine. I then pulled out the newly assigned case, and let the materials slip out for both to take a look. Clement’s once jumbled expression turned to clarity with the written French words. Stephen however scrunched his nose, scratching his head.

“This is the new assignment James mentioned?” he asked. “We talked about it briefly.”

“From Mirabeau, yes,” I answered, letting Clement take the file to read it on his own in its entirety. “The Women’s March will commence tomorrow morning, and we’ll be taking part of it with Sophie’s team.” At this did Clement smile. “Now that we know a bit more, we’re more equipped to deal with this.”

"Sweet, stick it to The Men." Stephen commented sagely, nodding along. "What do we need to do?"

“We’ll be protecting the protestors, and travel with them all the way into Versailles. It’s going to be a long travel, but we need to ensure it to be successful, and no casualties. Sophie gathered what she could of the layout, but other than that, we’ll be walking in blind, so be prepared for any surprises.”

"Smoke bombs? Flash grenades?" Stephen straightened up from his slouch, eyes sharpening in focus as he tapped his pointer finger against his chin. "I'm sure I'll need to stock pile most of my supplies, but what worst case scenario are we planning towards?"

I hummed, "Protestors fighting against protestors, most likely. There hasn’t been any Templar activity tied to this yet."

"_The people are angry, the worst we'll see is stores getting ransacked....maybe a hanging or two._" Clement remarked with a shrug, "_It's becoming the norm._"

I looked to him, “_Then I don’t think Templars are our biggest concern_.”

Stephen went back to sulking on the table, a pout clearly on his lips, "I don't understand a thing..... La Eiffel Tower, La baguette....." He muttered petulantly, "Hon hon hon...."

"Eiffel...tower?" Clement stared perplexed, disconcerted at the lack of understanding at the table.

“Yeah, like I fell for you,” at that did Stephen burst out his hands, and curl his three fingers into his palm to let his forefingers out. From there, he flicked down his thumbs, and proceeded to say “_Pow pow pow_” softly between each invisible shot.

“……What are you doing, Stephen.” My deadpan stare was absolute.

"Oh I'm sorry, are you jealous? My love knows no bounds, I can love you too, Elysia. Eeeeeeey,” Stephen replied immediately, victoriously winking.

Clement stared. Hard.

My eye twitched, “………….Meeting dismissed.”

**Strange bunch you got there**.

Again I was alone, reorganizing the papers, rewriting the report for Mirabeau to look at (despite the fact that he wouldn’t).

It was something to do, at least.

A distraction.

**Useless.**

Once that was settled, I collected all my belongings and placed them in the makeshift bag I had left the night prior. I scooped up the empty mug’s handle into my finger, and made my way across the busy aisle. Most of the individuals parted the way without a thought, voices drawn to soft whispers when my presence was made.

It was nothing new.

**Careless.**

Once I was out of the wing did I proceed my way up the rugged steps, cutting in the middle of the traffic as most walked down against my opposing force.

**Different.**

And then strode across the huddled teams, and took the left to enter the Intelligence Room.

**A familiar place.**

I dropped the bag at my feet, and went to the armamentarium row of books and documented files, placing my given tasks into my section.

**Don’t you remember?**

A low grumble buzzed clearly in my eardrum.

I shifted my glance to the left of me, descrying a light-blue cloaked figure pace in place, his gloved hand rummaging through his dark hay of hair. Bellac sounded displeased (when wasn’t he?), and was muttering something incoherent to himself. His eyes wandered across the lit hallway, his eyes inspecting the flow of students and other assassins. Left unsatisfied, he went back to staring at the spine of the books to his right as if he were interested in them.

“Morning, Elysia.” Beylier’s voice called softly from behind. He motioned his way beside me, smiling a bit despite the bags that clung underneath his dark eyes, “Or should I say, afternoon.”

“How long has he been here?” I questioned, and Beylier followed my gaze to see who I was discreetly looking at.

Beylier hid his face away, “I don’t think he’s left the quarters.”

“You must be joking.”

“His persistence is something to value,” Beylier curled his hands behind his back, giving a low hum, “Of course…there is a time and place.”

“So he’s been left unassigned while the rest of us have to pick up the slack?” I met his gaze, though Beylier was better at hiding his emotions than most.

“…Mostly, yes,” he tried not to strain out. “Bellac has insisted that the boy named Arno will show up.” Him again. This boy, _again_.

“Has anyone mentioned the opposite?” I pursued adamantly. Beylier mildly shrugged at this. “Mirabeau is also hopeful,” I concluded. What did this man have to do with this wretched orphan? It was unlike Bellac to pursue a specific recruit, I’ve seen his attitude about them in general before.

Beylier nodded in slight disappointment, “Mirabeau believes it will be good fortune if this Dorian were to arrive. Given the history.”

“Enlighten me,” I suggested, and opened a book to passively scan the contents of it when I felt Bellac’s gaze hit my back.

Beylier cleared his throat, and kept his voice leveled, “I’m not one to pry…”

“It’s not prying if I’m the one doing it.”

He scoffed at this, lightly amused of my played words, “….Charles Dorian, the father of Arno Dorian was once apprenticed underneath Bellac. From what I gather, he was already in the Brotherhood at an early age.” Now this set of information was painting a picture.

“Then?” I eyed him.

“He died, during a secretive meeting at the Palace of Versailles while Bellac was away,” at this did Beylier stop, and his eyes shifted downward to a mental place I couldn’t reach him. I didn’t like that, so I proceeded. Beylier was already anticipating it the way his shoulders stiffened.

“So the boy was adopted.”

“By the Templar Grand Master, _de la Serre_.” _Oh_? The name Bellac venomously mentioned the other day, and one I was acquainted with from time to time (how odd things so mundane were now so important to pay attention to).

“He recently died, did he not?”

“_De le Serre_? Yes,” Beylier affirmed my memory. “Months ago. From what I gathered, Mirabeau trusted _de le Serre_, for their partnership derives farther than the Creed itself…” He chewed on this, restraining himself from saying more.

“No one raised objections?” I interrogated the original conversation further, “This Arno getting adopted?”

“By then it was too late,” Beylier hummed thoughtfully, “A mere child doesn’t have any comprehension of what is happening in the world around them, and Mirabeau prohibited any kind of infiltration to obtain him back. Bellac was….insistent.”

“And Bellac listened?”

“For the most part.”

“And the killer?” Beylier stared to me. “Of Charles Dorian?” I specified to him.

Beylier bit his tongue at this, and shifted his face at an angle that hid his mouth.

“Unpursued,” I concluded.

An emotion of regret fluttered across his strained eyes, and my eyes widened by a fraction at the sight, “You know who it was, no one would have been foolish enough to track-” before Beylier could say the name and free himself of the sudden thought, a pair of feet trekked their way over to interrupt our conversation abruptly.

“It doesn’t look good when two assassins are gossiping amongst themselves,” Bellac announced freely behind my back. What the fuck, Bellac.

“You don’t paint a good picture by doing nothing but moping around either,” I retorted back, not once looking away from the book in my grasp. He said nothing at this, and only did I see his true self when I turned my head about, and saw his white face almost reddening from bitterness.

From what I gathered, Bellac had derived from the land of the Americas, although he was originally born in the region of New France. Something….set him off to arrive here but what that was remained unknown to most of us, except Mirabeau; it was clear there was more to his story than he let on and dared not reveal it for reasons. Was he under this false pretense that if he could get Arno to join the Brotherhood, he could continue where he left off with Charles who was struck with an untimely death?

Or was there something else I wasn’t aware of?

It was too quick to pass judgement on it…but it was a start, and too good of a coincidence that he happened to run into his past apprentice’s orphaned son who was then brought in a household of Templars (what a horrible statement altogether). Not to mention, he was becoming increasingly tenacious on the matter. With this new information from Beylier himself, Bellac’s once hidden past was starting to emerge, despite having worked with him for the past couple of years.

“You don’t deny your pointless susurrations, then,” Bellac insisted in a churlish tone. I glared back just the same, but Beylier was quick to rebuttal.

“As a matter of fact, we were merely discussing my recent connection with Thomas Dumas,” Beylier shifted the focus, and his smile reigned. “And Elysia has concluded herself to help in the cause when the moment arises. Isn’t that right.”

God damn you.

“I certainly was,” I didn’t miss a beat, and the sudden statement left Bellac staring in confusion from his earlier accusation. “Now if you’ll excuse us?” Unsure of where to pursue his frustration, he merely grumbled again and left us. Once he was out of sight from the quarters did I shoot a glance at Beylier who smiled innocently.

“I saved you an earful,” he teased lightly.

“Like I needed the help…” I hooked a palm on my hip, rolling my eyes.

“Now that I have you here and focused, it’s best to bring this out,” he pulled out a file from the desk beside him, “Today, you’ll be heading to the palace near the edge of the city. I have word a Templar has joined the council there, and is planning to influence the others into the Order, and we simply don’t have the resources to deter that if he succeeds.”

“Just the one?” I took the file.

“For this, yes. Swiftly,” he replied. “Though, can I ask you something?”

I waited.

“Why the sudden interest….of this….Arno Dorian?” he raised a brow.

I locked eyes with him, “No reason.” He searched, but not for long.

“Hmmm…..Have a pleasant day, Elysia,” he smiled nonetheless, and strode off.

Clever.

The infestation of humans gathered among the fork trail, restless and bitter as ever.

The decline of a functioning economy was becoming arrogantly apparent, it would be a foolish thought to believe all was right with the imagery of it all; tossed, flammable objects were cluttered together, scorched and dusted with ash from their displays last night. Most of the street had been cleared of debris by this time of day, but I would give it another hour until a night riot commenced yet again. The district of Saint Thomas- d’Aquin was the farthest from the central heart of Paris, so most of its exterior outlook was better put together than most.

Dressed women and men walked along the cobblestone streets, planted ferns and towering trees still intact along the more respectable buildings and parks. Several civilians huddled for various reasons, most notably around a centered square in front of my destination: _Palais Bourbon_. A legislative building that held country-driven counsels and meetings of the like; word had it that a Templar had been accepted as a new member.

What a short week it will be for him.

The front steps were occupied heavily by the entering members of the National Assembly, a colonnade decorating top base of the stairs; national guards stood at the ready, checking for any suspicious figures that happened to cross the doors if they dared. There was no clear entryway, so I decided to move around the side.

The gated vicinity was fully engrossed with guards, most standing posted at any entryway seen while others took routes to circle the building. The courtyard behind acted as a moat around the neo-classical, embellished-stone structure, finely detailed buttresses storming the massive pillars that upheld the back façade and the letters **CHAMBRE DES DESPUTES **below the slow-moving, glass clock. It was a long stretch of land, and the inside looked heavily occupied by generals and politicians. There were a few open windows, but none within reach.

I paced again, taking advantage of the crowd to remain inconspicuous. A few moving heads underneath a pergola on the east side of the building caught my attention, all of them retreating inside when the clock struck the hour.

My way in.

Now I needed the distraction.

A decent-sized, spare pouch rotated in my grasp, and I jingled it carelessly to attract the attention of several civilians who walked past. A few strode without thought, but the hoard of eyes I started to collect stared in trance; as much as people wanted to remain looking well-off, it was no surprise currency grappled the hearts of many who were in need. Increased taxes of the city only continued to grow, and not only did it wage war in Mathias’ mind, it battled each civilian in this clustered space of land.

My carelessness drew in one pickpocket, and I let him follow me as I made my way to the main, center gate toward the back, the two guards there unaware and fresh in the face; too young to figure out how to diffuse a riot if started.

The brute pickpocket drew closer, and finally I stopped. I untied the string from the top, and dug in greedily into the leather bag. In my fingers rained the coins, my eyes searching the few, curious spectators, and most notably the beggars. My eye caught sight of the main individual, as he paused of my sudden realization of him.

I lifted a shiny coin, flicking in the air before catching it, “_Want the bag_?”

“_What’s the catch_?” the man sneered, though undeniably hooked with someone else who had overheard the proposal.

I put the coin back in the bag, closed it poorly….and threw it toward in-between the two guards in the front, “_Go get it_.” The swarm of the humans was unanimous, and they yelled and protested as they raced to the glitter on the floor.

“_S-Stop citizens_!”

“_Back! Get out of the courtyard_!”

The two entry-leveled guards were outnumbered, and the rest of the patrols were alerted of the chaos that ensued. I took the opportunity, and strode easily to the right side of the fence. I stepped easily onto a perched crate beside the stone pedestal, and with one fell swoop I was over and touching the greenery. I kept myself hidden, and didn’t waste time to climb the shade of the structure, hooking my hands and feet easily onto the sills of the windows. One last heave, and I was in the stone-fenced parlor of the lounging area where the politicians once were…..and had forgotten to lock the doors.

Inside the abandoned corridor was adorned in imported rugs, pilasters dominating the open, vertical spaces. Chandeliers clung with history and extravagant curves from the vault ceilings, almost blinding from the bright windows with their crimson curtains parted elegantly to the sides. The opens doors at the end held the chatter of the entire assembly, and I stood flatly against the wall to inspect the seated crowd. The auditorium was in full session, and the names of two-hundred people present started to be announced one by one.

I waited for the full address, hardly breathing. Waiting. Patient.

Undisturbed, hidden.

“…Paul Ruebell…”

My eyes sharpened attentively, and I immediately fixated on the middle-aged man, dressed in the cleanest clothes he could obtain, and thin hair ruffled on his head. Blue eyes scanned the crowd curiously as his thick fingers played with the edge of the paper he had in his hand. He hardly spoke with the issues presented, almost as if he had trouble figuring out what to say. Still, I waited for an hour, fingers clutching the edge of the door’s frame.

Then he got up, motioning his way up the steps, and behind the columns at the very back of the chamber. He remained oblivious as he walked calmly to the doorway, and entered the quiet hallway where the echoes of the stage sounded off. I followed behind him as he entered a room, but he was caught off-guard when I gripped the door and pried it open adamantly.

“_Ohh, I’m so- you’re not a guard_!”

The door slammed closed.

“_T-Templar?! I’m not a Templar_!”

**Finish it.**

The blade clicked out uncompromisingly.

He screamed.

I silenced it instantly.

**Good fox.**

The late afternoon creeped onto the horizon, the rosy pink engulfing the entire scheme of the sky. Shadows great and long pooled the floors and remaining civilians, though most were heading back in the safest routes. The riots of the inner city commenced yet again, and the echoes of the people sung fully without interruption. As to not interfere with the madness did I encircle the entire northern arc of the city, and started my way down the _Le Marias_ district. Not far from the _Notre Dame_, but a good enough distance away and easier access to Charlotte’s café.

I flicked my wrist clean of the fresh red, letting my mind settle of the newly, attained body count for memory. The stiff fixture in my back sanded away, the noxious Twilight settled for the majority of the day. If need be, I would go seek Beylier, and see if he needed another contract settled.

For now, it was good enough-

“_Think you can run away from us, boy_?!”

It was unusual to stop; many people had been robbed, shanked, and beaten in the streets numerous times, by the thousands, and after a couple of years….it was nothing but the wind in my ears. But the way the skull hit the floor, and the soft gurgle proved to me this wasn’t another usual robbery; it was personal.

The scuffle was coming from an alleyway, away from prying eyes but enough to expose the backs of the three men that towered over the thrown boy on the ground, all dressed in red-accented attire. They were unaware of my presence, one clearly thrilled to deliver a kick to the scruffy-haired teen that had fallen, and snatched something from his injured arm.

The man baulked at the order of deliveries, his blond hair slicked back on his head, “_Where these to? Ile Saint-Loius? Palais de Justice? Keeping yourself busy, aren’t you_?”

“_Give that back_!” the young man pleaded, “_You don’t have to do this_!”

“_Why? So your Master can profit from his work_?” The tallest of the three with curled hair demanded the order to the shortest, a stocky-shaped ruffian who gladly rammed a kick to the teen’s chest, “_Maybe you have something else on you that can persuade us to leave you alone_.”

The teen shielded his chest from another stinging hit, wincing from the rough step digging at his thin wrist and breaking the skin. The thugs laughed, crudely teasing as the boy desperately fought to get back on his feet. With every shove he’d give, they’d repay with a kick to his side and a foot pushing to hold him down.

“_Hey, doesn’t he have a single mother_?” They were starting to lift him to his wobbly feet.

“_Maybe we can just acquire her services in exchange for her son’s safety_, hehehe—OW!”

The young boy spat out from the vicious bite, scrambling at the opportunity to pick himself up and bolt. Unfortunately, he didn’t get far when two of them seized his slender arms and rammed him against the wall.

“You fucking bit me!” The curly-haired man grabbed at his chin, forcing the freckled teen to look up at him, “_Do you have a death wish_??”

“_I wish to never taste rotting skin like yours ever again_,” the brave youth spat at his reddened face, and in return, got punched in his stomach.

The kid had guts, and kept his face firm when the free man picked up a rock from the ground, and motioned his way, “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget-“ a loud hiss followed, and all eyes shot back to stare at my interruption.

“You have three seconds to apologize…or I break your arm,” the words slid easily through my mouth, my grip iron as his bones slid against one another.

“You crazy bitch, let- AHH!” _SNAP_. The dense man was writhing, and attempted to pry his broken limb away, punching at my shoulder. I gripped the fist with precision, and kicked at his leg to make him kneel. His once angered face now turned to that of a plea, his entire expression drenched in pained sweat.

“Now you have three seconds to get the hell out of my sight, or I break your ribs next,” I corrected myself, and sent the man to the ground with a firm kick.

“_Fucking kill her! Don’t just stand there_!” the irked man had a change of heart.

**Pathetic. **

The blond pulled out a made knife, and the other picked up the same rock the first had dropped. It was chucked with force, but it was merely swatted away and shattered against the building wall. The armed man plunged his arm with haste, but it was a futile attempt; the fluidity of my movement was far too quick to catch underneath his lanky arm, and my hidden blade met its target when I rammed him down to the ground. The weapon was strung out, a string of red playing the man’s last song in this world.

“W-Wait, I-I’m sorry-“ the second man hit the wall, one of my hands gripping his head and the other impaling the blade into his thick neck hungrily. Once he halted any movement did I withdraw my hold, and walked casually over to the whimpering man on the ground whose curls almost hid his face. With one flick of my arm, the blood of his comrades fell on his only working arm and scratched cheek. His wide eyes inspected my shadowed face, seeking for asylum, for a redemption he didn’t deserve.

“_Leave my sight, **bitch**_,” I enunciated, and watched him limp to his scurrying feet with interest. He whimpered in tow, and cradled his broken arm as he cut around the bend.

Next, I turned to the boy that had gathered his footing, and lifted the small bag that had been taken away from him earlier. After he had moved his hair from his eyes and dusted his light-colored pants did he look up at me, unsure of what to say. “Take it, and go home.”

"_You--You saved my life_." The teen fumbled with words, carefully purchasing the item in my grasp. He dropped his eyes to look inside of it, grimacing at the crushed contents. Seeing he was occupied with his newfound disappointment did I turn my back to leave. "_Wait! Can you help me get back to the bakery I work for? I'm afraid these men are going to come after me again especially after....this_."

“_What men, two are dead and one left running with his tail between his legs_,” I pointed out flatly, and began my stride. The boy’s grip on my arm was relentless, and his heels dragged with every step I took. You’ve got to be kidding me. “_What_.”

"_They work for a rival baker down our alley_!" he explained hurriedly. "_The owner has a deep grudge against our establishment since it's been doing well, so he's been attempting to sabotage us left and right...but this is the first time men have come after me_!" Despite the wallowing pain delivered on his side, he continued to hold on, "_I...uh--I can pay?? Yes? I mean--I don't have money now and my goods sort of got crushed--but if you take me to the bakery maybe something can be.....arranged.....please_???"

…………….Ugh.

“………Fine. We’ll see how much you owe me when we get there,” I relented. His smile practically broke his face, but the injuries he sustained beat him to it. He got bruised pretty good on the side of his face, and by the way he was walking, his ribs took a pounding. “…Can you walk?” Why was I suddenly becoming everyone’s babysitter?

"Eh? _Oh…er yes, I can manage through it_." He took the lead, a grunt escaping him to prove otherwise. He swallowed the pain and strode down the way, gazing over his shoulder to make sure I was following despite his continuous hold on my sleeve, "_It's...not the first time I've gotten beaten up, but that's for another time. My names Jacques by the way, you can call me Jaq._"

“_Shouldn’t you be traveling with someone else….rather than by yourself at this point_?” I arched a brow, noting the healed scar along his temple. I took this as a habit of his, getting into scuffles that is.

"_Well, we did have someone else before, but then he got shot_....." Jaq sheepishly trailed off, rubbing his neck, "_Besides, no one really brutalizes a kid. Yeah, a beat up or two, but for the most part I get away scotch free and with extra tip if I'm fast on my feet. I think I'm pretty fast for my age-I outran two National Guards near Notre Dame when they thought I was stealing bread; not delivering it_-"

…Did he realize he was talking so much.

His garrulous mouth kept yapping away for the most part, and I merely stayed in silence as we progressed through the streets. We were coming close to a familiar sector, one street in particular that would lead me back to the café in half an hour’s time. What a coincidence his destination was somewhat close to Charlotte’s.

After a whole five minutes of hearing him explaining…something, whatever, I gladly cut into his chatter when we came to the center divider of the busy sector, “_Are we close, now_?”

"_Oui, it's right there_!" Jacques found the motivation to hussle, dragging me along. He cautiously locked eyes from a view across, and I followed…though found nothing but a few people and some shops. Was the store that threatened him in that direction?

"_Pierre! I'm back from my run_!"

We entered the small business, the door closing behind me with a small ring and finally set free from Jaq’s grip. The scarlet-décor café was empty, a set of tables and chairs set aside against the far edge of the room. A wooden counter aligned against one side; a display of breads perched against the wall behind that. Some hardened breads were set on a rotating stand for closer inspection of their chosen sweets. A few, used rags were left unattended about, and an embellishment of roses were engraved along the rims of the windows and edges of the walls. The sound of footsteps immediately proved me wrong of the café’s abandonment.

"_Ah I see--merde, Jacques, what happened_?!" A middle-aged man with aged eyes and a full-grown beard stalked over from the backroom, shuffling around the counter and his large hands grasping the teen by the shoulders. “You’ve been gone more than- your face, Christ.”

"_Ah ha...it's nothing too bad....my mother isn't here is she_?"

"Jacques!" a woman’s cry spurted out.

Jaq flinched with one lean shoulder prompted up, along with the elder man whose face slightly paled, “Oh no…” A woman in a modest, beige dress with emerald-colored lining stalked over with a firm step, her large bun almost toppling over on her head. Her tan, lean fingers smothered his face automatically, and her pink mouth dropped from the very sight, “Oh Jaq your face!” She snagged him nearly from the floor, cradling him in her locked hold. He squirmed in retaliation, but not even he could deflect his mother’s care. Nor could the man escape her rage as her forefinger targeted right at his face, “This is the third time this has happened, Pierre!”

The gray, bearded man stammered on his choice of words as he fiddled with the apron tied around his hefty waist, "I, uh, yes Gisèle, and I promise you this will be the _last_."

"You promised that _last_ time,” she sternly scolded, her nail nearly tearing at his scrunched nose.

"_Oh...je suis desole, mama_\--I'm fine--I'm fine." Jaq’s face was getting smothered in her hands, being checked for the bruises, "I need...I need payment for the woman that saved me!"

"What?" Pierre halted, and somewhat grew whiter at the very sentence alone. Both him and the woman lifted their gaze to me, finally addressing my presence, “Y-You saved Jaq?” he questioned still.

“I did,” I affirmed. Steps from the backroom proceeded a second later, this time an dark, oak-colored man with a hard expression peered out, the whites of his eyes almost like canvases for his black-sun orbs. He looked my way as well, and straightened himself up in full height when he stepped out. He checked Jaq, then signaled a knock on the door behind him on his left to alert the last figure in the room.

And when he stepped out-

“Is Jaq finally…..”

A feral storm of darkness plunged from his very feet, coiling itself to encase the entire room’s floorboard, like how it did once before.

Black straight tresses had morphed to waves like stationary flags, and the black blankets of his irises. The shirt had not changed, funny enough, and a red sash was tied around his built waist.

And I couldn’t look away from him, and he was well aware of the ambiance of the room now.

**Look who it is.**

My body was encased in frost, and the moths in my chest bombarded my ribs. I felt something trickle furiously along my face, as if fire itself were spitting directly on my flesh. The sweat along my palm increased, but I dared not move an inch to curl my digits in; my disturbed Twilight jumbled in place, and the fox from long ago awoke from her dull existence.

It was Corvus.

And I don’t know what compelled me-

And I reached up, just enough….

And tilted the hood, just a bit…..

And he saw them.

He saw my eyes.

Something snapped in place.

The same expression from that day in Paris all those years ago--with his brother.

With **him**.

With…..with A-

The wicked darkness shot like a geyser, and I simply let it override the entire atmosphere, mist the entire air while the humans stood clueless of the sudden silence that enveloped. It spit and roared, and it wavered my curls from even within my hood. The threads and vines snapped like rabid snakes, but when they latched onto my legs did they seethe and curl away. The opposing forces were at a stalemate as I proudly held my ground, and whatever poison that had infected itself within Corvus was no match to overpower my core.

It didn’t know how to take it.

He repressed this noise in this lurching throat, and instead clenched his teeth beneath his lips for he dare not bare them. We didn’t break gaze; we didn’t move a goddamn muscle. The room had moved in conversation, but only Corvus and I remained frozen in time, of this past he was also unkeen of revisiting.

Like me.

Instead, with all the might he had in his body, did he cross his arms. Retaining the pent rage he repressed. He then shifted his focus on Jaq, and I did the same only a moment later.

"Yes, yes, I completely understand-" Pierre looked desperately to the woman name Gisèle, holding a hand out towards her direction, "I’m also grateful he was saved from this wonderful Samaritan.”

“Who attacked you, Jacques? _Why this time_???" his mother finally let go, and Jaq took the first breath with a strained expression. He rubbed his ribs with a tender brush.

"_It was Henri, he sent brutes to stop me from finishing the last order_."

"That's it, I'm putting a bullet through his fucking head--" Corvus lashed out, taking a step.

Pierre slammed his hand on the counter, preventing him from leaving, "You will do _no_ such thing, Orfeo!”

Oh? That was his new name?

“I will not risk this place be closed because of your irrationally impulses! I have a business to run!" Pierre cried out next.

"And I have a child that’s mother owns a third of this establishment too!" Orfeo barked right back, louder actually, "_This is the third time this week, Pierre, I'm not allowing this_."

Pierre shifted in place, debating on confronting the bulkier man. Then instead, he did the unthinkable, and slithered his way to me. I stared, did not move, and watched to see his hands clap together, his head bowed in plea.

"Mademoiselle, I believe we owe you...payment, yes? For saving dear Jacques from further harm, I'd be glad to give it, but...I'd like to present you an offer--"

"You're not asking **her **for help, are you??" Orfeo spoke with ire, with spite, with everything negative in his body. Because we both knew what this meant. "You little...rotting...**we don't need the help, Pierre**."

"We do, and I don't care what you have to say. I’m using my third of the privilege to ask!" Pierre turned to me again, standing as tall as he could despite his short stature, "My apologizes for him, he can be quite uncivil."

I took the chance, and let it run its course, "Don't apologize for him. He's an asshole, and I see it hasn't changed."

Oh, he didn’t like that. Especially the way the darkness hissed in my ears.

"AAHHH!" Pierre's eyes lit at this, and even the colored man beside Orfeo stared with a sudden look between the two of us. "You've………met him before?? I don't have to apologize for his brutish ways then! _EXCELLENT_.”

"Hey!" Orfeo barked boorishly, his brow twitching, "You little--"

“Of course I have met him,” I let the words sink into the shop’s walls, earning everyone’s attention to me. “Hard to forget him if he’s constantly yelling no matter the time and place.”

It snapped again.

That same expression.

And he was rushing in my direction from my swift instigation.

I waited, patiently as ever as Orfeo stood right in front of me, only mere inches taller than I as the entire café turned to stone. Unsure of how to proceed, how to react, whether it had been a good idea that I had saved Jacques after all if it meant another dead body would come out of this.

Unsure of our history.

Of our time and place.

“**Get. Out**.” Orfeo hissed with bestial determination.

And I saw them. The venomous rubies in his eyes.

A maelstrom brewed, overpowering his sense of human purpose that wanted nothing civil, and everything raw and personal. His breath was hot and smoky, a tang of a spice coating the edges when it crashed into my lips. The other humans in the room stood no chance in this battle, only stood as spectators as I took a step closer and stared directly at him that he nearly was succumbed into my hood.

“**Make. Me**.” I purposely urged out, and this sweltering pulse grappled us, and flung our darkness into a spiraling, volcanic rupture. He didn’t look away and neither did I.

Despite the intense exchange, I had almost forgot that Pierre was involving himself in the matter. The older man had purposely positioned himself beside us, his hands clasped together and his front directing to me.

"You don't have to go."

"I say she _does_,” Orfeo didn’t look away, his musky scent emphatically coating the entire confinement of my cowl.

"And I say that as a man with nothing to lose, **she gets to stay**!" Pierre fired back vehemently, and stood his ground to push his shoulder in-between us. "I will not allow your brutish actions to continue plaguing our store!"

And Orfeo found the grounding he needed, his annoyance peaking to a point that his eyes rolled towards the ceiling, his lips pressed so tightly that blood threatened to spill. He raised his finger, attempting to come up with something.

Anything.

But nothing--it was slowly deescalating out of his system. His pointed finger curled into the rest of the fold, shaking his fist as he turned to Pierre with a callous look only the skirmish man understood.

"Then this is on **you**." Orfeo sneered, "I don't want any part of it."

"Jesus, I certainly hope you're not with that look on your face."

I could swear he was on the brink of sanity, his blood-hungry gaze staring at Pierre (most likely daydreaming of taking this man’s last breath away). Eerily slow did his eyes meet me yet again, and searched with unyielding judgement. Dug deep and threatened to rake his presence so I would remember his exasperated expression forever.

“Guess you stay……_debunate_." He savored his glower, and an angry smirk played at the very edge of his lips when he saw my eyes narrow visibly.

“Guess I do,” I coldly leaked out, parting my lips to expel a cool whisper next, “Grazie….Corvus.”

Oh he did not like that one bit either, the darkness shifting and taking hold of his shoulder. There, the wing from long ago expanded…but something changed. It was longer, and a lot more unkempt. It had been damaged at the edges, yet nonetheless grand in its size as the feathers’ tips oozed with smoldering magic.

"Hmph." Now it was his turn to glower, scoffing lowly at the comment. Yet he left it at that, and took a step back. I smiled; Pierre fiddled with his fingers, shifting his eyes between us (most likely what everyone else was doing). This was clearly out of their hands.

“Well….whatever it is you decide-“ Gisele came forward this time, Jacques tucked around her arm and she crushed him in an embrace yet again.

“C-Can’t…breathe….”

“Thank you…for saving my son,” she responded benignantly.

I averted my attention to her, replying as polite as possible (which in turn irked Orfeo even further), “He needs to be more careful. He shouldn’t be roaming on his own anymore.”

"I try to keep him at home, but he...he doesn't fare well to being kept in one place,” she sighed, tucking a loose strand behind her pierced ear.

"You mean stuck, bored to death in the comforts of my room?" Jacques huffed at the idea, "I'll only go out to the streets again."

"Jacques." Gisèle gave a warning tone, but her son meekly avoided her gaze, crossing his arms instead, "The Bakery has been a good way to get him out of the house...but I fear as the days keep going, it won't matter if he's with tens of others...I...it would reassure me if those that are threatening us with harm are handled with discretion."

"And besides, we've been attempting to hire another to go with him...either they've chickened out because of Henri's pressure or they're the saboteurs themselves..." Pierre looked sharply at Orfeo, "_THAT_ was a mess to explain to the guard over the shot corpse down the way."

"....He had it coming." Orfeo defended with a sneer, "Fucking idiot tripped and dropped all the money in the bag."

“It sounds like you’re in a predicament....” I stated the obvious, resting a hand on my hip. “Clearly, Orfeo can’t seem to behave well enough for anything to go well. Again, not surprised.”

**Are you….enjoying this?**

"You know what, fuck off." Gisele recognized the tone, and slapped her son’s ears closed just in time.

"You _do_ understand!" Pierre clapped his hands together, as if I had been the answers to all his prayers, "Please mademoiselle! I beg of you, considering doing daily rounds of our humble establishment to ease not only my partner's sense of wellbeing but _mine_."

"I'd bake you some fresh bread in thanks if you did." Jacques attempted to sweeten the deal but Orfeo shoved a swiped handkerchief on his face.

"You're on thin ice, Jaq. You're not making any negotiations here."

“....Did you say bread?” the question brought Orfeo’s stare back to me. I blinked, and tilted my head purposely, “....Fresh? Every time?”

"Uh....yes. We are a bakery after all." Jacques removed the hat away, attempting to push away Orfeo's hand while still held prisoner in his mother’s grip, "I always make rounds in the morning. I could just give it to you here or when I'm giving orders--"

"You're not giving her free bread--"

“And why not?” And I defied Orfeo’s cemented glare...and how delighted it made me feel was something beyond my control. “Didn’t you say I would be coming back for more?”

Yes….that’s exactly what he said.

For a second something salacious stirred on his features (even if it were faintly), but he scoffed the next minute, forcing his way back to the kitchen. The quiet man who had remained a spectator behind the counter looked my way for a moment before following his example.

"Then....you'll take payment in baked goods??" Pierre attempted next, "You can pick whatever you'd like each morning when you come."

“I accept your offer; any specific times or days? I’m mostly occupied in the mornings.”

"In the afternoon if its easiest, after our rush it dwindles down and I send Jacques out by then. You can come earlier if possible but at least for now I can imagine this is a good start."

“Okay. But I have one more condition,” I replied, halting Pierre. “...I want Orfeo to bake all my goods.”

**Oh…you bad fox.**

**He’s not going to like that either.**

".....Huh, pardon?" Pierre stiffened, fiddling with his fingers, "Ah...well....he makes the vast majority of the bread anyways here....I'm sure I can...smooth that piece of note to him later."

“He knows the grave he dug himself into, he doesn’t have a choice,” I genuinely smiled.

"Then I suppose this matter is settled!" Pierre's shoulders laxed, a sigh escaping from his once scrunched body, "We'll see you tomorrow at midday ma'am--"

"Pierre--" Gisèle cleared her throat loudly, staring sternly to him, "....today's payment???"

"Oh, I got it!" Jacques squirmed out of his mother's grasp, gracefully moving behind the counter to collect various goods. He enclosed them into a bag and it held it out eagerly to me despite his recent wounds, "Thank you again, mademoiselle. These are some of the ones I saw Orfeo make before I left, they should still be fresh!"

I couldn’t help my grin, and took the bag from him, “Thank you. Try not to get into trouble until tomorrow then...Jacques.”

“And what’s your name??” the teen persisted.

“....Ask Orfeo. He knows.”

"GET HER OUT OF THE STORE ALREADY BEFORE I MAKE HER GET OUT."

**You sure you want this fox?**

I smirked.

"We'll be sure to ask then," Pierre ignored the outburst, smiling, "It’s been a pleasure doing business."

"Now sit Jacques, I need to check your wounds!"

"But mama--!"

"No buts, _sit_."

The ring of the doorbell sounded out from my parting, the baked treats in my hand certainly holding an unfamiliar weight I had not felt before in such a long time.

**This is going to be….interesting.**

And he was foolish to step in.

Knowing what it could mean, or what could happen to him.

Even if it killed him.

“Versailles?” Arno squinted his eyes, scanning the abandoned parchment effectively, his feet ready to bolt when needed when he heard the familiar greeting of her name in the manor. Charlotte would make sure of it.

So he kept reading, and reading. Accounting their names.

James, Stephen, and Clement.

Their names were all over.

Where they would meet and what time.

The path they would trek.

It was all here, foolishly left in scribbles, but it gave enough away for what he needed.

He placed down the paper exactly the way it was, and tiptoed his way out of the room. The door closed with a small snap, followed by the shout of her name.

“Elysia!”

“Charlotte,” her voice was a whisper in comparison.

“You brought pastries? Oh, these look divine.”

Her boots echoed on the staircase, Arno’s back to the top step as he dusted off a painting, and cleaned the rim of a vase. She said nothing to greet him, and merely went inside her room. He heard the small tap of a coffee cup being placed down, and the sound of rustling paper. She would be locked in the for the rest of the night, that was her routine.

But in the morning….

He was going to ruin it.

He was going to Versailles.

“I’ll be there soon, Elise.”


	5. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s be real for a second, here. 
> 
> I thought this reviewer would stop commenting but the last update proved me wrong. I’m fine with critiques, but when said reviewer starts to be hellbent persistent and irrational, it’s predatory and I’m not too keen on having a stalker who purposely waits for each update.  
You’re dangerous. And it’s not normal. 
> 
> I’m not here to say you’re wrong (even though you are because nothing is historically accurate in a game that deals with gods and has the concept of this time traveling device, and let’s face it you’ll just deny ever being wrong and I wish to have the bare minimum contact with you EVER), but what you’re doing is absolutely, disgustingly predatory. 
> 
> It sickens me to wonder how many writers you went after, and what lengths you went to make them stop writing whatever they wanted, to make them stop being a writer because you went out of your way to purposely look up things that made you uncomfortable (you dumbass). You absolutely have no authority; do you understand that? You’re delusional and I’m not sorry for you, and I’m not hoping things get better for you if you decide to go down this path you’ve decided in order to immortalize yourself into this grotesque fanatic symbol.  
The Assassin’s Creed characters do not belong to you, and you can bitch and moan all you want about that. I have not read any of your reviews, I just delete them when I know it’s you, but I do have them saved because the AO3 team knows who you are now and you better believe I reported your ass. 
> 
> On a last note, I’m glad you’re upset with my character Elysia.
> 
> That means she’s made a mental impression in your head (keep in mind you’re so UPSET about someone’s who’s not even REAL) and she’s going to be there forever no matter what you say or what you do. There can be only one fox around here and it's going to be Elysia.
> 
> Die mad about it.

The early morning came, and all that remained of the night were the moon’s last touches coruscating dimly among the lit lanterns of the streets. One by one they were extinguished with quick hands the passing hours, and the city of Paris awaited the birth of the scorching orb of the vast sky. Mornings varied, along with the atmosphere it brought to each one; I had seen many sunrises, and today was the same as any other one.

One particular lamppost was occupied after the crewmen left it, the smoke within leaking its ash like a silk thread within its glass chamber. It danced and vanished, reflecting my eyes as I looked up to it fleetingly. Accompanying me against the warmed post was the reliant British man as we patiently stood for the arrival of the two, other assassins.

“They should be here soon,” James adjusted his glove, the strap around his belt neatly arranged to flatten properly around his waist. It was curious to watch him total his inventory; six daggers, six smoke bombs and six explosives. He recounted it for the third time, but I said nothing to his casual, superstitious habit.

“Whether they do or they don’t, we’ll be leaving,” I drummed my fingerless-gloved digits on my hip, tracing the buckles of several straps with my fingernail. “A lot is riding on this mission, and I don’t believe Sophie will ever forgive me if it were to go awry.”

"Don't worry, I doubt they're going to miss something like this,” he exhaled steadily, and I swore I could see every muscle in his face compose. Off in the distance he looked, watching the quiet marketplace set up. Few civilians were only beginning to set up their goods, but it was clear of those who came were clearly frustrated. Tense with the lack of economy.

There was an invisible friction, one that could easily be ignited dangerously and out of proportion if the right conditions were set in motion; it was safe to say the humans were already at a breaking point of civility in this time and place…or whatever remained of it. James was concerned of the rumors carrying for the past couple of months, and I wondered why a persistent man from another country even cared so much for another.

Then again, it wasn’t the first time I had seen such an attitude before; he had more of a sympathetic compacity of mine. Besides, he did a fairer job on it.

"Have they grown on you?" I replied softly, and James laughed lightly of the question.

“Who? Stephen and Clement?” I nodded once., and he answered with a genuine smile, "We are comrades in arms, I would think it's inevitable that they would."

“People who work together don’t always get along,” I corrected.

He acknowledged this, aware of my tone, "I do have to take it in strides; I have to accept I'll be returning to England after I feel satisfied with the skills and knowledge I've acquired here. I will have to leave eventually.”

**They always leave in the end.**

“Hmmm…”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine without me,” James smiled again, the lines of his eyes cementing this, “Perhaps then...I can start doing something worth meaningful for my Brotherhood there. To have a foothold in London again now that the Templars have taken over."

"Then take everything you can get, James. You only live once,” I finished, adjusting the scarf in my hood to chase away the cold chill.

"Precisely what I plan on doing." James bowed his head slightly in regard, lifting it a moment after a pair of footsteps sounded not too far off. Further inspection, it was Stephen and Clement striding over, with some incoherent mumbling between them.

The odd American held a weary expression the closer they approached, clearly having been arisen not too long ago. Clement didn't fare any better, but looked to be the most alert of the duo, approaching us with a small wave with his hood poorly hooked sideways on his head.

"_Sorry we got here late; I wasn't exactly sure where we were meeting_." Clement apologized, catching his breath as his head hunched over, "_The streets are still hard to memorize unfortunately_."

"_You only did arrive from Marseilles not too long ago now_." James’ brows furrowed, patting his shoulder gently as Clement went to fix his hair with a quick swipe, "_Or has it been nearly a year now. I can't remember_. Stephen?”

“Mnnmm…?” the brunette smashed his fingers into his eyes, and massaged them slowly to gain his bearings.

“How long has it been since you've come to France from America?"

Stephen startled visibly, and it could easily be excused that he had barely woken up and wasn’t sure what was being asked of him. But, I knew Stephen better than the other two, and watched as the young man ran a rigid palm through the back of his hair, laughing nervously.

"Haha, from America, right.... that was....a while ago, sheesh,” he processed hurriedly, his eyes darting amongst the ground in recollection, “Um.... Like more than a year? Maybe a year and a half? Almost two?" Stephen looked away at the growing, silent stares of the team. "It doesn't matter that much, does it, James?"

James was a smart man.

Immediately aware to pick up the vibe Stephen was radiating out. Before the matter could be pressed further, I cut into the banter and collected all eyes to me with a sharp, low whistle. Stephen’s quiet sigh of relief was enough to tell me he was grateful of the sudden change of topic.

“Enough chatter; we need to start making our way over to the marked sector by Sophie,” I responded, and led the trio who obediently followed behind as we made our way across the street. James, who presented himself to the right of me as usual, kept pace; Clement remained on his side with Stephen to my left. “You’re all equipped and prepared before we take our leave?”

"More so." James answered with a nod. Clement merely answered with his axe rested strapped to his broad back and Stephen flitted his fingers through his bags, shuffling between the smoke bombs and firecrackers. "Let us take our leave, gents."

We arrived timely to the destined alleyway between two business structures, and came face to face with five, hooded Assassin members waiting readily. With Sophie in the lead we merged into the slumbering shadows, and even with the little light provided of the absent dawn, I could make out the dark circles under her eyes.

“Morning, Elysia,” she greeted, and moved her eyes easily among the other three men behind me, “Gentlemen, I appreciate your punctual arrival.” Her team of four came forward, nodding briefly. Though, the two women from Sophie’s lineup waved toward Clement energetically, who then smiled softly in return. “We’re all accounted for.”

“Do you have visual of the march?” I asked first, despite the loud buzz booming into my ears.

“It’s already begun, don’t you hear it?” Sophie tucked her hood a bit aside, exposing her ear to the fresh air. “Listen.” My three, gained apprentices did so, but it was clear; the faint distant of shouts and uprisings were collecting at a sector, leading to the south of the city’s heart. This was no ordinary mob, and reminded me plenty of the Bastille raid not too long ago.

“Then we best get a move on, before they disappear,” I commented.

Sophie shook her head at this, scoffing a bit at the statement, “I doubt that will be a problem.”

Hands and feet latched and flung themselves from the unkept rooftops, a body of seven, hooded figures dashing along the tiled buildings. Boots and heels alike thudded with ease, without as much as making a sound if they could; some hoods flapped against the wind while the few capes soared at the rapid descents. Everyone kept pace, and once at the edge of a towering structure did we all pause, and look down at the roaring river of civilians.

“Holy shit,” Stephen mumbled out, and I could feel James’ sigh ripple throughout his entire body.

A flood of hundreds leaked from every crevice the city of Paris offered, and the numbers only increased with jeers and flags snapped vibrantly from the opened windows. Women sang and chanted with forceful conviction, and a few men in the wave had even rallied themselves in the cause; in most hands were long necks of shining silver, sword and guns alike glistening in view. Feet sounded off angrily into the sky, and arms of all kinds punched the air with vicious fortitude.

“They’re armed,” I pointed out the obvious.

“Didn’t think it was going to get more complicated than this?” Sophie gestured with a flick of her hand, rubbing her neck within her hood. “The arsenal on the east side was stripped of all its weapons, and the result is in front of you.”

"_From what we've gathered already, they've established de-facto leaders, though one by the means of a Stanislas-Marie Maillard stands out the most_." One of Sophie's men reported, blue eyes glittering from within his hood, "_He already has made a name amongst the market-women and those who had stormed the Bastille. So far, he's attempted to quell the mob's worst instincts, but if any radical influencers were to sway the crowd--I don't see this march going very peacefully_."

"_Then it will be up to us to silence those who would dare try to agitate the crowd_." James scanned the rooftops, following my gaze, "_They're heading towards the southgate, and I could already see the national guards assembled. That's a potential hazard for a collision of interests_."

"_I hear there's pressure against Marquis de Lafayatte amongst his own troops_,” one of the women from Sophie’s team quipped in, crossing her slender arms on her chest_. “They're threatening mutiny, if not death against their commander if they are not allowed to go with the crowds_."

“_That doesn’t sound good_,” Clement pressed his lips, still gawking at the large crowds with Stephen beside him.

"_What in the blazes is wrong with people_?" James held his tone, or somewhat tried to, "_First the Americas, now France. Everyone has the taste for change, not necessarily what's right for the country_."

“_A British man like you wouldn’t understand_,” the other male in Sophie’s team quipped in, and suddenly all eyes were mounted on the two men who stared at one another defiantly, “_Paris is crying, and the citizens are the only ones willing to do something about it_.”

“_Not being born in this country doesn’t exclude my opinion_,” James suddenly fired, and this garnered the opposing male to clench his teeth, his gloved hand curling into a club.

“_Then do not speak as if you know what’s good for France_-“

“_He was merely giving a viewpoint of the situation_,” I answered with ferocity, and this entailed Sophie to stand at the ready, facing me as we both tucked our students behind us. Silence ensued, but Sophie and I dared not look away from one another as I towered a few inches taller than her.

“_Matters that should be handled….for later_,” Sophie replied, inhaling sharply, “_I will have a word with my student after this is handled._”

“_As will I_,” I didn’t wait to answer, and we lowered our guards, though I could feel James’ glare unwavering behind me.

One of the female recruits of Sophie's team declared next, promptly tapping her foot against the clay, "The crowds are marching forward. Does anyone have any sound advice on how to handle the objective at hand?" This change of topic attempted to change our focus.

"If we split up into groups, we can cover more of the march and stop potential aggressors faster?" Stephen offered out quietly in the terse silence, eying the street before averting his attention to her. He had suspected they were arguing about something uncomfortable.

“That sounds like a sound idea,” Sophie agreed at the suggestion, looking rather pleased of his quick note. “Any objections, Elysia?”

“No, I believe that’s the right course to take,” I cemented, arranging the positions mentally. “I say the squad be separated to cover more ground, but not too scattered to accomplish this.”

“Then we shall divide accordingly,” Sophie stepped forward, and pointed with precision, “_Three will be in the back, to stow away any potential threats at the end of the line. The rest will be within the middle section, while Elysia and me take the front to warn of any potential dangers ahead_.”

“I approve,” I replied, and looked to the squad, “_Clement, would you mind keeping the rear in check_?”

“_Yes, that’s fine_,” he answered without delay. At the mention did the two women of Sophie’s team smile broadly, and hooked their arms with Clement’s. At the very sight of it did the man with blue eyes on Sophie’s team stare in frustrated awe, rubbing the back of his head.

“_Lucky_…”

“_James and Stephen will aid you both in the center_,” Sophie disregarded the unheard comment to look at the remaining men by her side. “_You will do best to keep order, and to behave_-“ at this she looked at the agitated student, but pressed on, “_If anything were to bring any sort of conflict in the crowd, use your firework signal_.” She took out her example, and clearly showed it to Stephen who sternly looked to her for the translation, “Use this to signal either Elysia or me.”

"Got it." Stephen nodded sharply after one look at her possession. "If we can end it ourselves, no need for back up right?"

“Back….up?” Sophie blinked.

“I think he means, reinforcements,” I clarified.

Sophie’s eyes lit at this, “Ohhh, of course. If you find yourself in a position to silence the enemy without harm, do it discreetly, you’re correct. We don’t want to lose focus on aiding the crowd, but the safety of ourselves comes first.”

"Then the matter is settled,” I finished, and looked to James with a small jerk of my head.

James beckoned with a hand the next moment, Stephen following in suite with the two others in tow. Clement gave a quick salute, the two women giggling and following after the bigger man while teasingly poking at his back. From above, I leered down to see the assassins inspect the crowd, James and Stephen exchanging words while the others prepared for the infiltration.

"I'm thinking if we have two of us on either side of the road, we'll be able to diffuse any trouble that might start up on either side." Stephen mused with a rub of his chin. "What do you think, James?"

"That sounds fair, we can pair off easily and intervene if we need to." James assessed and then smiled gently, "Though you need to keep up if that's the case, Stephen."

Stephen made a sharp noise in the back of his throat, "I'm so offended that you would even imply that I'm not physically fit enough to keep up! Sure, if everyone was spitting rapid fire French at me….." Stephen huffed slightly, bumping James' shoulder lightly. "In all the time you've known me, have I ever failed spectacularly at my job?"

"Not spectacularly." James teased with a laugh, slapping a hand on his shoulder, "But I'm sure you're going to prove me wrong again on this mission, just like the ones before. Everyone ready?” A collection of agreement reached him in the front, and James led the line that soon parted at his commanding hand.

Sophie and I followed skillfully from the boarded rooftops, and once I was comfortable with their camouflage into the mob did I pick up my pace.

“They’ll be fine,” she reassured me, and leapt across a building to reach the other.

**All those bodies.**

I followed suite, soundless as I kept pace easily, “I know.”

**Don’t you remember?**

And the march trekked.

Almost an hour in, the coolness of the dawn was invaded by the sun’s awakening face; the fiery cluster of bodies increased each passing building of Paris, and soon after, we were on foot with the frustrated humans while every bell in the vicinity tolled heartily. Sophie and I kept a well distance away, but close enough to keep a visual view of one another in case things went awry.

“_We want liberty_!”

The women and few men hollered to the skies.

“_We want food_!”

As if some sort of god could hear their chant from the clouds above.

“_We want rights_!”

Sick and tired they were; frustrated and distraught with the toxic norm the country had brought upon them. A toxic norm I thought was once lost to time already.

“_The Royals must know our stand_!”

The checkpoint of the city’s gatehouse came into view, and Sophie and I shared a knowing glance at the sight of it. The crowd suddenly halted in proceeding movement while the two of us pushed past the crowd to stand near the front center of the swarm.

“Stand back, citizens!” an unknown guard in front warned, and was armed with few other soldiers. Quick inspection, I didn’t catch any azure uniforms of the city’s formalities. Something was wrong.

“Let us clear the way out of the city, quickly,” the woman assassin suggested. She made a clear path, and I obediently followed behind, making sure not to draw attention to ourselves as we moved away from the people. We stood beside a shack of sorts, letting it hide our figures from sight.

“_We do not want violence, we want the King to see how his citizens live_!”

“_Kings and Nobles pay no tax, while we shoulder the burden for them! We must band together, and band together we have_!”

The gatehouse was two stories, two buildings connected with a stone, arcade in the center that hovered above the gated exits and entrances of Paris. At the side of the building were several shrubs and bare trees, the autumn wind picking up its breeze. Once away from the crowd did we inspect the locked windows, and the rooftop above-

“Get down,” I clutched Sophie’s arm, and she followed swiftly. We tucked ourselves within the bushes; above a sniper dressed in red attire peered over to investigate the floor ground. When satisfied did he finally move his body away, and continued his round.

“Good eye,” Sophie thanked me, and nodded her head up. “Let us climb.” She took a running start, and gripped onto the window sill easily; I followed beside. Letting my nails dig into the man-made gravel gave me easier work to haul myself up. We lurched and pulled our bodies with ease, scrunching up before propelling ourselves up to the next step like leaping caterpillars.

Peering over the edge, the one sniper made his round to the front of the square deck while another walked to investigate the backend of the space. Straight across on the second building was the same layout where two more snipers remained posted, again dressed in the red clothing of red hats and woven brown jackets.

“These aren’t the normal watchmen,” Sophie sighed in exasperation, “We dispose of them quick and quiet.”

“Then don’t miss,” I stated, and we made our move.

“Hey, you-“ the first sniper met the first unlucky fate, his back hitting the tiled roof as my blade purchased his neck. The second one didn’t have time to react, ignoring Sophie to place his full attention on me. He pointed the rifle, and with swift, inhumane accuracy did I clutch the neck of it in my grasp, jerking the metal to disable it. His eyes widened, but he was silenced a second later.

His dying gasp lurched into my palm, his body soon plopped and out of my arm. Across Sophie had taken care of the extra two snipers, and we both nodded from across to enter the opened hatches leading inside the building. The hood around my head flapped when I leapt right in, my boots thudding against the wooden beam that caught my fall. Standing in front of me was another man who had been foolish enough to come investigate the last sounds of the humans above, staggering away from the ladder I clearly ignored.

And I didn’t wait for an answer.

_THUD._

“_What was that_?” a man out of the five rotating on the floor below shot his eyes up, but it was soon obscured in sudden darkness when my blade sunk into his chest. The entire fleet of men reacted violently, and stormed their way around the long, middle table of the quarters, swords in hand with pistols ready.

One sweep of an arm, the sword that struck down missed me, cutting into the board of the table. The drinks and spare playing cards splattered about, and the man’s body lurched lifeless when the hidden blade sunk easily into his throat. The pistol aimed, but I was faster; the threatening bullet cut into the dead man’s back, and then a flying dagger pierced into the middle of the shooter’s eyes when I dropped my flesh shield. The remaining men readied themselves, their blades shaking in both hesitation and anger in the light of their fallen comrades.

“_Come here, you_!” the bulkier of the trio roared, and took a charge. The sword flung across, but the armed hand was caught, and twisted in place. He grunted from the sprain, and his unbalanced foot tripped onto my outstretched one. He was flung and rotated in midair, but my curved sword pinned him to the ground before slicing away from his chest. He dared reach for my ankle, and I gave it to him, knocking him out to allow his deep gash to overpower him.

“You fucking witch!” the man sprung vengefully, but his eyes widened when he blinked for one second, and suddenly saw me beside him; unsure if his eyes had played a trick on his sense of time- “TCH!”

The scimitar lodged into his back, and he gurgled one last protest before his body sprawled on the floor. I snapped out the blade, and eyed the last man who was running down the steps in a sprint, flailing his arms in desperation.

“_Aidez-moi_!” he pleaded, but my body had already leapt from the top of the staircase, arm retracted with hidden blade shot out. My body arched across the air, and in a matter of a second the man gasped out, the contraption purchased into the back of his neck to severe his tie to the world. He didn’t wrestle, silently accepting his fate while his eyes glimmered in their still bright sheen. I erected my posture from the ground, flicking my blade clean before retracting it in place, and adjusting my sword properly back in its sheathe.

“Over here!” Sophie’s whisper fleeted out. She was waving me from across the way of the cleared bridge, the door left ajar to show her own mess of quieted men. We met in the center, and looked down at the three men who still blocked the way, preventing the women from opening the gated doors.

“Looks like we’re nearly done-“

“Elysia!” I followed her bewildered stare. “The extremists, they’re arming cannons!” I narrowed my eyes, but inspected beyond the loopholes to the open field behind us. A whole encampment had been set up; the farm buildings had been rid of any of the farmers, men in crimson uniform surrounding the open area where the women would walk into.

“Of course, they are,” I rolled my eyes.

“Take them out, swiftly while I keep the crowd at bay!” Sophie interjected.

In her hand she pulled out the small, made grenade, lighting the end of the thread with a flick of her blade against the rock rim. She tossed it outwards, and in midair did it pop with a start. The fireworks exploded profusely, lights of green, red and blue popping energetically. This alerted the crowd, and the guards beneath cut away from their posts to start heading upstairs.

“Go, Elysia!”

I didn’t waste time and climbed out one of the broken windows from the room where Sophie had exited from. Keeping to the shadows, I dropped quietly, and made my way to the encampment where several men in the distance moved for preparation. I eyed the building closest to my left, and made my way to press myself against the side of an abandoned wagon. I heard the clink of something metal and heavy dropping. Three seconds in-

“FIRE!”

The wagon across from me exploded on impact, the tremor shaking the ground from the brute force alone. The splinters and broken debris of earth and grass impaled the air, and dropped with dust and pebbles collecting along the shot space.

“Let us prepare the next cannon! They’ll soon go through the gate,” a commanding officer announced. There were at least a dozen men on sight, with a lot more on the right-hand side where the cannon was fired from.

A low whistle beside me, "That sure is a party of Templars in there, huh?" Stephen grinned a bit deviously. "Wanna crash it?"

I went along with his odd lingo, grateful of his prompt timing, “You’ve read my mind.” Across the way hidden alongside a thick tree were James and Clement, the British man kneeled while Clement hovered above him for aid.

I whistled out the signal, and the three men nodded, James and Clement taking their chance while Stephen and I rounded the building’s stone wall. A mass of men surrounded one of the canons set, a couple of them returning to the pile storage not too far off near their made tent. A pyramid of barrels laid in wait, one picked up by a brute while the two other, slender men counted how much powder they had left.

“Smoke bombs on my ready,” I whispered.

“Gladly,” Stephen had already plucked two out without a second thought, our eyes set on the unsuspecting victims.

“Now.”

The section of dry land hissed, and the next moment a gush of smoke exploded from the tight, woven canisters. The men groused in protest, but they were already alerted of the stories.

A commanding officer bellowed, “Ring the alarm!” A tied, grand bell stood posted not too far from the group. The long neck swirled of red and gold color, snaking its twisted decoration to the new, shining bell where a strong strand of yarn laid in wait. One courageous male motioned his way over, and reached for it as if he had practiced this routine his whole life-

“Gnn!” though Stephen had interfered with the plan.

And he dropped.

“Arm yourselves, the assassins are here!” It was a swift cleanup, all the agitators brought on their knees, and soon they laid in their bare beds of their world’s floor, undisturbed once the smoke had cleared.

One man had tried to reach to trigger the canon, but my foot caught his shoulder and kicked it away, giving Stephen space to stand beside me as I fiddled with the massive machine.

"Lemme know if you need help, Elysia." Stephen remarked, keeping an eye on the downed guards, more notably sneering at the one that fidgeted something in his jacket. A pistol was pulled out shakily, but Stephen merely snatched it away, as if the extremist were a child, “Naughty.”

“Depends, do you know how to disarm a canon?” I asked nonchalantly, already grabbing a nearby pike to finish the job.

He gave a side glance, a coy smile on his lips, "Of course I do! But it seems like you've gotten it, so my loss." Cheeky kid.

One swift jab downward, and the inner mechanism of the firearm was proved useless from how far I had bent the metal, preventing further use.

Clement and James had managed with their own ambush, and the four of us met at the center of the field, overlooking to the gatehouse that let the crowd through. The victorious protestors continued on their way, our eyes planted solely on Sophie and her team that followed with the crowd’s flow. Everyone was pleased of the results, having looked like they had met a confrontation of their own at the gates themselves where I had left Sophie.

“On the march we go!” one of the female assassins grinned, clapping of our success.

Over and over the crowds demanded fairness, declared out to the open fields of greenery pastures. Foot attire of all kinds trekked the cobblestones, and the nearing towns caught in the crossfire were channeled with this newfound energy these protestors carried for the past two hours. Across plains, bridges and forks, the front women leaders of the march defied all odds, and kept the crowd aroused of any tiredness or soreness that threatened to disrupt the flow. Curious spectators watched, and some dared to join the cause…while others did not.

Instigators that threatened the march were swiftly put out of commission, because each one we passed was met with a quick end. I was confident James kept the assassins in line, and Sophie didn’t question his integrity; he was a man who had given everything on every mission, and she was so aware of it she didn’t hesitate to put her team under him. I knew he wouldn’t fail, he had not failed me once, and my mind was at ease.

Except.

**You remember.**

Why was I feeling anxious?

**You know who it was.**

The past week has tested my patience, especially with this new flock of people forcefully venturing themselves into my routine life (it was instinct to imagine this is how it felt like when I had first obtained James as a mentee, followed by Stephen and Clement the coming years…but this was different). First it was the Dorian boy, then Jacques, and…..then it was him.

_Corvus_.

**How funny.**

Someone like him _vowed_ he would never return to France. He must’ve left….and it was proven by the darkness that had leaked out of him so easily and profusely; something unnatural and wicked affected him, and whatever it was commanded his emotions so easily. And yet, he was ready to bite my head off the moment he saw me, as if destiny were playing a cruel joke on him and testing _his_ human-demeanor.

**You found it funny, didn’t you?**

He had three hundred years to move on….it was somewhat jarring to know he had still remembered my face.

**How could he forget someone like you?**

So……….why.

We arrived at the edge of Versailles, a luxurious town that was clearly away from the chaos of Paris with its clean streets and opened markets. Trees planted accordingly along the pavements of sectors gave way to comfortable shade in the breezy noon, and the benches in the small parks were well occupied by citizens who carried themselves happily and proper.

The citizens here were well off on their own, oblivious to their neighboring residents as they shopped pleasantly along the square, or they were fully aware of the situation an decided not to involve themselves about it. As calm and collected the scenery was, all eyes were drawn to the string of cries and shouts, the Women’s March seeping its effects into the pathways of the city.

I found Sophie easily in the mass of thousands of people, and we both agreed to part ways from the scene. We steadily treaded through the flowing river of bodies and hastened our way up an apartment structure. The well-kept windowsills made it an easier grip, and the well-adjusted tiled of the roof hardly made a sound when we perched ourselves to the very edge. With another firework in Sophie’s hand, she ignited it midair and above the crowd’s heads who cheered of the announcement, unaware it served as a beacon for the men and women who aided their cause.

“I would deem this as a successful mission,” Sophie nodded, letting the hood slip off her head to allow the wind to kiss her oiled face and loose strands. She looked to me with a grateful smile, the gray bags under her lids not as prominent as they were this morning. As if the success of this mission brought her some lifeforce to keep going.

I rested a hand on my hip, scanning the hooded figures heading our way in the distance, “It was.”

“Have you ever been to Versailles?” It was a polite question, and she didn’t wait for me to respond, “It’s a beautiful city, and it has a great view of the fields. My sister lives here, actually….”

I narrowed my eyes, taken of her sudden reveal, “…I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Not many do; only Beylier knows about her,” she responded, sighing her worries into the swaying breeze. “And now, you.”

**Don’t get attached.**

I pressed my teeth lightly together.

**You know what’ll happen.**

“Hmm….” I averted my gaze, and she followed….though I felt her catch me at the corner of her eye.

One by one the other assassins climbed up the side of the complex, sighs and exhales of relief expelling out when each one reached the top tile.

“Finally,” Stephen seated himself on the ledge, pressing his palm against the top of his crossed thigh while he slightly leaned to gawk at the spectacle below. Clement joined him while the others peered to the distance of where the palace of the King laid in wait.

“The King will have his hands full,” James stood beside me, resting his hand on the back of his head. “It was a pleasure to work with you again, Master Sophie.” At this did he turn to address her properly, and bow his head. Always the dignified one of us all.

“We’re well aware this was a sudden intrusion,” Sophie acknowledged, her team standing behind her loyally, “But we thank you, and hope to work with you another time.”

“Heading back to Paris?” I questioned.

“We have other matters to finish here,” the French woman shook her head, flicking the bottom of her eye clean with an elegant sweep, “For now we part ways, but I shall see you tomorrow, Elysia.”

“Of course,” I nodded. “We’ll be heading our way back.”

“Safe travels,” the kinder of the two males smiled, waving briefly.

“Byyyye Clemeeeent~” the two women snickered madly, dancing their fingers teasingly his way.

“Goodbye Josephine, Desiree,” he turned halfway in his seat with Stephen, the two waving courteously as James scoffed of their childish exchange. Sophie and her team were off, leaping along the roofs as both James and I watched them go, and soon disappear on the ground level.

“We’ll resupply with a small break, but once we’re done, we’ll head back to Paris on horseback,” I ordered out.

“Then let us find a place to rest,” James agreed, stretching an arm out to make it crack. “….Ugh.”

“Ohh, we talking food now?” Stephen stood up, and extended his arms above his head fully, grunting once before letting his limbs drop, “Could definitely grab a bite.”

“There was a café nearby, it looked nice,” Clement offered while he checked his pouch for some change.

“Heh, we could check it out,” James looked to me, beaming lightly as he swept his hood back, letting his face breathe the clean air, “What do you say, Elysia?”

“Excuse me, pardon me.”

That voice.

No. It couldn’t be.

My targeting eyes adjusted, and my foot tapped firmly against the edge of the roof, alarming Clement of my sudden movement. Below, the crowd continued to plow through, and one head in particular with brown hair tied in a small ponytail frantically wrought his path through.

My eyes widened, then condensed to unamused lines, “**Boy**.”

I made a break for it.

“Elysia!”

“Where are you going??”

I cut from the group, try as they might to catch up.

Arno was swift, and swept across the squares with ease with the human current. For a second, I lost him, and my eyes shifted to their vertical slopes to scan the vicinity quicker. A red ribbon, and I gave chase around the bend. My hands clipped the edge of the building, my diamond-strength nails digging into the stone to propel myself faster. My feet hardly made a sound on the gravel-paved floor, the Twilight pulsing vigorously along my legs.

My eyes darted across the ground floor, but Arno was gone.

“Arno! ARNO!”

No response.

“Damn it, boy!” I trekked the streets, and a feeling of restrained frustration gushed into my body; my bones threatened to rip through the seams of my flesh. My muscles tightened at the newfound problem, and there was no excuse to let this go unpunished.

But I had to keep calm.

**So many people.**

I had to keep calm.

**You know what you did.**

“An idiot youngster, this tall. Did he jolt past here?” I demanded every passerby I came across.

How did he even show up here?

“Boy! ARNO!”

It was no use.

I couldn’t read him out, nor hear him despite how hard I concentrated. The sounds of clopping hooves and murmuring pedestrians clouded my focus, and it was getting rather bothersome to pick out this annoying needle in this monstrous mound of a haystack.

It would’ve been natural, easy to leave him behind, but knowing Charlotte…I would never hear the end of it, and Mathias would certainly raise objection to his loss of free labor. Not to mention, my bonus over Bellac was as good as gone.

But was it such a good idea now knowing how reckless he could be?

After fifteen minutes of searching-

“Fucking…..” my tongue seethed fire and smoke, pouring through the slits of my gritting teeth.

There he was as I instantly recognized him by his slouching shoulders. Sulking at a fork of a trail, and leaning his body against the metal post.

I stalked toward him, and the response I got wasn’t one I was prepared for. He was utterly still when I snatched his arm, his eyes gazing along the ground as if he knew I would show up. But he didn’t fight the hold, nor pry his arm away when I yanked him once.

“How did you get here, Boy?” I curtly commanded. Arno’s eyes narrowed….hurt from something from his poor poker face. Like someone had punched his face right in, and he dared not speak of his assailant.

He avoided my gaze for once, but answered lowly, “It doesn’t matter.” His nostrils flared at this, and a wet trail glistened on his cheek as if he had swept it clean. Or, got most of it.

“Yes it bloody hell matters,” I quipped angrily, dragging him underneath the shade of an alleyway, trying my best not to splatter his brains across the wall. “You knew I would be here, how??” I tried not to glare.

I failed instantly.

“…….I snuck into your room, and read your notes,” he didn’t even try to lie.

My leg shifted, and the kept secret was driving me mad, his real intention of having arrived, “…..Why? Why did you come?”

“….I saw my sister,” he revealed, and the sudden recollection of him speaking about Versailles came back to memory when he first arrived at the theater.

The proper response would’ve been to ask how did it go. But I wasn’t going to.

I impatiently replied, “And??”

“And she pointed a gun to my face.”

I said nothing, he didn’t even give me time to react before continuing.

“A part of me wanted all of this to be a lie. She’s…..Bellac was right,” his breath hitched, but more of frustration of the uninvited truth, “She’s a Templar. And she believes us to be enemies….despite everything- everything that happened between us!” At this did his face lift, and his teeth gritted roughly enough that the ravines between his eyebrows deepened and darkened his eyes, “She fully believes I killed her father, thinks it’s my fault!”

I crossed my arms, and the need to scold him….vanished. By a fraction. He was becoming more of a nuisance by the minute.

I had to be rational about this, “Did you do what you need to do?”

He looked upset at this, aware of my lack of interest on his personal matter, “….No, but I doubt she wants to speak to me ever again.”

“Then let’s go,” I gripped his shoulder, and pried him across the street; he didn’t fight. It wasn’t long until the group of assassins found us, the three men approaching and staring curiously at the one I had in my grip.

“Elysia, why did you run off so quickly?” James asked, breathing heavily from their frantic search.

“Ohh, who’s this?” Stephen placed his hands on his hips, and leaned so that his head tilted in a way that his straight locks hung from the cowl.

There was no point in keeping his identity a secret, and from the look James gave me, he already knew who it was, “Arno.”

"Hmmm, did you adopt him or something, Red?" Stephen asked in amusement. He shifted so only one hand was on his hip, his other to gesture at the Dorian. "Based off how pissed you made her, kid, I assume your parents or guardians don't know you're here?"

"You do realize he's about Clement's age." James arched a brow, shifting his gaze over briefly to Clement who raised a questioning brow.

Stephen shielded his own mouth at this, whispering quite loudly to the British man while the other two males stared in slight disbelief, "Like I said, a kid! Younger than us James, so automatically children." James sighed at this, obviously unsure of Stephen’s logic while Arno semi-glared.

“I am not a child,” he corrected, and wriggled his arm for freedom.

I kept my grip stone, “With the way I had to fetch you, I beg to differ.” He grumbled, and snatched his arm back. I let go this time, watching him cross his arms, “We’re heading back to Paris. Now.”

"Soooooo," Stephen drawled out with a curious hum, "Babysitting duty now?" He gave a pointed look at Arno who met his stare harshly. Stephen was clearly amused of how easy it was to tease the Dorian.

“Not for you,” I lifted up a coin purse, and handed it to James, “Indulge yourselves for the rest of the evening; I must take the boy back, and settle this matter once and for all.”

Stephen winced dramatically, but a hidden smirk played on his covered lips, “Tough luck, kid. Shouldn't have went against Auntie Elysia's wishes."

"Understood." James took the pouch easily, assessing the awkward situation with brows raised, "We'll….keep an eye of the Palace for the remainder of the time. I've already overhead word that the crowd is calling for the King to return to Paris with them..."

"_We're going to stay longer_?" Clement quirked his lips, rubbing his neck tersely, "_You're really pulling us on over-time, James_."

"_What can I say, I'm only a bystander to history in the making...I'm a bit curious of it_." James tugged a weary smile, returning to catch my look, "We'll be back in the bureau by dawn tomorrow."

“Fine with me. Let us go, boy,” I grumbled, and dragged Arno by the scruff of his neck.

His feet skidded, arms flailing to catch his balance, “It’s….ARNO!”

The three men stared after, tilting their heads of his childish and brash demeanor.

"See, James? An honest to god Child."

“…Let’s just go.”

The horse acquired proved itself enough to get us back to Paris, its hefty hooves filling in the silence that ensued between Arno and me. I felt his thudding heart pressed nearly against my back, his arms trying their best not to go above my hips whenever the horse made a harsh trollop without warning. To the less trained eye, it would be a guess that Arno had never been in this sort of position before….

But that was a lie.

The boy knew how to ride a horse.

He hardly made a ruckus, or a noise of discomfort, and he had no problem getting on one when I had control of the reins. He merely seated himself properly, wrapped his arm around my waist, and remained quiet for the next two hours. We made quick stops to catch our bearings, and hearing Arno’s excessive, grumbling stomach signaled me to stop at a nearby shop for some nourishment. Four bites and his meal was downed, but his quirky attitude remained absent as if he had swallowed that too. We fed the horse a quick meal as well, and went on our way once again.

He purchased my waist but this time it was relaxed rather than rigid; his mind was elsewhere than our return, and I wondered for one mere second if it had something to do with his sister.

**You know what you have to do. **

I didn’t ask.

We arrived at the gatehouse, this time occupied with the right Royal guards of Paris. We were allowed easy entry, and eased the horse into the nearest stable shop in affiliation with where we had borrowed it. The working man thanked us for our hospitality, and we were on foot again.

The streets were in ferocious activity, though no sort of mob or fire started…yet. Instead, people took to the squares and open spaces, waving their French flags with dignified swoops and chanted in songs. For the “Breadmaker” (the King I presumed) to return to see and fix his people’s suffering. The clean atmosphere of Versailles and the fields were gone, replaced with the smog and thickness that suffocated the very air. What a sore change that would be for a King.

Now, for the other matter.

I peeked at Arno from the edge of my hood, watching him sway in his walk with an exhausted expression.

If Arno was so foolish to follow me for five hours…who knows what Bellac would allow him to do under his watch. Personal matters would cloud his judgement; as much as a good assassin Bellac was, he wasn’t well with hiding his emotions like others. But…I was no better with bothering to understand Arno’s ambitions.

“Boy,” I addressed him.

He lifted his head as we came to a stop around a corner of a complex.

I rephrased, “Has your purpose changed? Are you still….intent on finding the killers of Monsieur de la Serre?”

He searched his mind but it didn’t take long to grasp his answer, “Without a doubt.”

He was still adamant on it. Even after what happened with his step-sibling.

Was it such a clever idea to have him under the same roof then, despite how annoyed Bellac would be if I took his apprentice?

Perhaps Bellac saw something in him I wasn’t aware of…or they were both as deranged as each other. Either way…his attitude would surely give me a headache, and knowing he snuck into my room wasn’t shit I was going to put up with. It wasn’t something Bellac would either, but I’m sure he’d be glad to handle it for it being Charles’ son.

God damn it.

“I shall take you to the Brotherhood then. So you may discuss your…future with Bellac, face to face.” And away from here.

His face lit up at this, as if today’s sour turn of efforts had not happened at all, “You will?” He stood right beside me, catching my gaze as he inclined his head just a tad up to me.

“Yes…tomorrow morning,” I made a motion, but stepped back in horror of Arno’s elated expression, afraid it would rub off on me if I stepped too close-

“What changed your mind???” he pursued. I stepped around him, but he was persistent and kept pace of the jubilant news.

“That’s not of importance-“

“Of course it is, you must’ve seen something in me to change your mind!”

Oh god, “Arno-“

“ELYSIA!” the voice bombarded our conversation, Arno swiftly looking in the direction as I was. A small boy- “_Over here_!”

Jacques’ frantic arm called me over, a beam stretching across his lips as he sprinted over with flailing arms. I paused in my stride, and this caught Arno’s prying eyes, and watch the young teen huff his way to present himself in front of us.

We were still a distance away from the café; to see he ran as far as this part of the city made me wonder who exactly were the cliental for this place. 

“_You’re just in time! I was actually heading back to the café now_.” The boy smiled pleasantly, his large eyes flitting between myself and Arno, “_Who’s this, a friend_?”

“_He’s not my friend_,” I corrected.

The Dorian boy pouted at this, but grinned down to Jacques, “_The name’s Arno. And you, young man_?”

“_Name’s Jacques, but you can call me Jaq_,” the teen answered readily, crossing his arms triumphantly across his puffed chest. He smiled coyly, obviously playing himself as some sort of dashing rogue.

Arno pursed his lips at Jacques’s cheerful demeanor, sliding a look towards me accusingly before focusing on the young boy. “_How…how do you know Elysia_?” Arno questioned, raising a brow.

“_Oh, you know_,” Jaq waved a hand nonchalantly, “_Took on a bunch of thieves, Elysia handled the stragglers. We showed them, didn’t we, mon ami_??”

Arno gifted me with a stare, as if I didn’t have the capacity to talk to any other human being that wasn’t him. In fact, he looked rather awestruck I was being nice to a child.

I said nothing, and merely moved the conversation along, “_If you’ve accomplished your business, then let us leave so you arrive safely_.”

“_Oh, is he coming too_?”

I debated. Heavily.

“_He will keep you company until our arrival. You can talk to him about anything you want_,” I decided, commencing to walk. Jaq clapped his hands, Arno powerwalking to keep with my pace.

“Wait, what?”

But Jaq didn’t waste a moment, and tugged onto Arno’s sleeve, while keeping his other one around mine (of course he would), “_Are you Elysia’s apprentice? Do you have that strange blade like she has on her wrist?? Do you like running, you seem like someone that likes to run—_”

Arno’s face went from confusion then to instant regret; the color in his eyes fell through his agape mouth, and I felt the corner of my mouth twitch humorously to see him shoot his pupils directly at me. I said nothing, merely moving our bodies along the safest routes to reach the café’s district.

We arrived in a timely manner, and Arno’s soul clung to his mouth as the door opened, finally free of Jaq’s childish talk. Arno slumped himself inside the doors, and rested his body against the surface of the nearest table. Clearly, he was always unaware of his manners anywhere he went.

“_We’re back_!” Jaq sounded off, pleased as he hit his own chest valiantly. “_Elysia scared all the thugs away_!”

“…_Pierre has stepped out of the store, Jacques_.” A different voice rung from behind the counter.

Jacques lit up at the sound, rounding the tables and drummed his hands energetically on the counter, grinning. “_You’re manning the counter, Oya_?” he asked.

It was a short, dark-skinned girl, black hair tightly bound back in a bun and dark suns staring at Jaq with little concentration. She fixed the collar of her blouse, and flatted out the apron around her hips.

“_No. You know I’m not allowed here_,” the girl named Oya replied. Yet Jacques still managed to smile, swaying in place. “_Who are they_?_ Customers_?” she shifted the conversation, looking to Arno with a judging eye while she merely looked at me for one second, unable to decipher my face within the cowl.

“_No, it’s the woman Pierre decided to hire_!” He beckoned a hand to us, “_Meet Elysia, Oya. And this is her friend, Arno._”

"_He's not my friend_-"

"_She wishes she were my friend_\- OW,” his head slumped on the table, hands clutching the back of it.

"Shush, boy. I'm not having any of it today," my hand retracted, the corner of my eye twitching from his snarky reply.

Oya merely observed, blinking slowly and passively, somehow unaffected of our display. Instead, she curtly nodded her head and knocked on the back door where a certain darkness laid simmering, sharing the space with another figure. The larger man from the day before had opened it, offering a terse stare the moment he stepped into the bakery.

"Jacques,” the dark-skinned man greeted.

"_Oh, hey Maduka. Didn't think you were here yet_..." Jacques sheepishly withdrew his hands from the counter, immediately motioning himself around it to join Oya. There he grabbed a spare apron, avoiding the man’s inspecting gaze. It didn’t take long for those set orbs to shoot to mine.

"I take it you're looking for the payment that is owed to you for getting Jacques back to us?" Maduka assumed, his thick accent cementing every word perfectly.

“Wait, you’re getting paid for this? All you did was walk him down the street!” It was as if Versailles never happened, and Arno’s profound attitude resurfaced.

“I should be paid double; I babysat two children instead of one,” I gave him a straight stare, and he was displeased of the rash comment. “I would like to be compensated for my services, yes,” I answered to the colored baker, “From Orfeo’s batch. As promised to me.” The darkness pulsed, and I could smell it from where I stood easily.

Maduka turned towards the back shelf. Jacques swayed in place, and drummed his fingers on the wooden counter…though his attention was elsewhere. Oya caught on, and she gave a wag of her finger, chiding him from doing….something. But, it didn’t take luck to guess who he was looking at. 

Maduka handed me the reward, wrapped in a thin sheet of cloth, "He made this batch about an hour ago. I would see this suffices your compensation."

“For today,” I answered, and held it up to the opened doorway the little girl was beside, giving the bread a little wiggle, “Thank you…..Orfeo.”

"**Get the hell out of this damn shop**." Was the curt response that admitted from the shade, followed by a string of unintelligible grumbling. Jacques pursued his lips thoughtfully at the door, but let it be. Maduka presented a patient stare, striding to and into the room beyond the door, closing it shut behind him. Another sound of grumbling voices, but no need to go into detail of what Orfeo thought of me.

It was quite obvious.

“Let us make our leave, boy,” I wrapped the bread securely as I made to the door.

“Right…right,” he rolled his eyes, slugging his way behind.

“_It was nice to meet you, Arno_,” Jaq’s face bloomed with a smile, giving a small wave while Oya remained expressionless, “_Hopefully we meet again_!”

“_It was a pleasure to meet you too_….” Arno relented, and gave back a small smile. “Until then.”

“_Au revoir_, Elysia!”

“Oh, Arno!” Charlotte snatched his neck, and mercilessly stuffed his face into her bosom where he struggled for air. The rest of the servants seated themselves, taking a nice sip of their premade coffees and teas. “We were so worried!”

“C-Can’t…Ch-Charlo-“

**Suffocate, human.**

I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

“You brought him safely back home, Elysia! Don’t you ever do that again! I’ll have you know-”

I started up the stairs, moving myself away from the scene and into the main study of the manor.

The Grand Office, secluded me with its golden-rimmed, double doors; items of various values stacked and decorated the varnished oaks of the shelves. Books of various languages and useless maps of ancient worlds and times. Charlotte’s eye for antiques ranged for countless forms, though more notably for the refined plates with decorated blossoms and lavenders embellishing around the edges.

And as I sat there…

**We’ll always be with you.**

“Damn it….” I shut my eyes, feeling the throbbing along the back of my head. I rubbed it profusely with my digits, but the feeling wasn’t going away.

**You’ll never be alone again.**

My teeth grinded, and a hot steam clouded rational thought. I dug my nails underneath the lower drawer, raking them in to deepen the indents that were already there.

**We’ll always be together forever.**

**“**Fuck….” The sunlight creeped into the room, direction my vertical pupils at it.

**Little fox.**

“Elysia, I made you some lunch!”

A knock on the door, Charlotte waited, but when no answer came, “Elysia?”

She opened the door, and stepped into the study, setting the silver tray on top of the desk, “Where did you….”

She stopped, and stared at the opened doors, leading to the gardened balcony….

But I was long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also disabled automatic comments so no one has to deal with you ever again.
> 
> BUH BYE (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	6. Initiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh boy, 35 pages for you lads this time around. I hope everyone is doing well, and had a good November! Mine's barely picking up with some good news, and hoping it stays that way for the coming December. Remember to treat yourself for the holidays!
> 
> Again as always, thanks for your patience and support, and to the contribution of my co-writers; enjoy what we have this time around! Can catch me on my other links, but if not, until next time. Peace kids <3
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Keys~

Morning had risen among the manor, though only I stirred awake. Mildly irked from the routine, two-hour sleep cycle.

But why change it now, after all these years?

My soft groan met the usual creak of the floor when I stood from the wing chair; one hand digging into my curls to steady my pounding forehead, the other latching onto the creamy, balcony door. A soft fog slept on the glass windows, dimly lighting the quarters with a gray ambiance. The only lit source was the imported candleholder near the main door, coruscating an orange beacon in the entire darkness and reflecting on any gold sheen of frames or rims.

I shuffled to the disarrayed mess on the desk, purchasing the red scarf tossed on the cushion seat, and rummaging across the splayed papers and scattered quills for the parchments I needed today.

“Keep it together…” It sounded from outside.

I exhaled, hearing the contemplating footsteps in the hallway. I paused, enclosing my flaming curls within the scarf around my head. The not-so-quiet person continuously treaded outside my door, then last second decided to wait for me downstairs. I downed whatever cold coffee I had retrieved last night before exiting my bedroom. Again, the shuffle of impatient feet; Arno had already been awake for a while.

Talking to himself to face this new ordeal, “Everything will be….fine. Introduce yourself. Yes, I should do that….”

Upon the last step of the spiraling staircase, Arno straightened himself up when he caught my way, and secured the small ponytail behind his head. He adorned a set of basic trousers, and a blouse with a small jacket accompanied with it.

“Are we setting off?”

“We are,” I don’t think absolving his doubt eased him.

But at last, he would be out of my hair.

We solidified our statuses as living ghosts; silent through the streets once outside, my feet occasionally stepping on either some leftover, wooden rubble or a page of scattered newspapers. The morning mist swam freely underneath the crossing bridge of the Seine River like silky hair, I found it almost funny to think James might have thought of it cursed once when he arrived to France that very morning. Hardly a soul wandered outside except the few suspicious rioters of the night before, or several lower-class citizens preparing for the struggling day ahead.

Arno observed the set-up barricades of the polluted streets, and what remained of their malicious activities with an intense stare. He looked rather upset with the visual of it, yet kept whatever he was thinking to himself for once. It almost made me wonder what he thought of, the political mayhem of it all. An elementary brain like his would be able to come up with some opinion about this whole damn mess.

But, we had other matters to attend to.

“What’s so special about this building?” Arno tossed in arm, in slight disbelief we had come to a rundown mill of grain, left abandoned. I said nothing and pried the door open, removing the heavy, wooden plank that prevented entry.

Left to wonder of its weight (especially when I lifted it with only one arm), he ducked underneath and into the dusty room. The stairs screeched with disturbed rats, most of them running up to escape our intrusion. Arno tucked his nose into the sleeve of his jacket, coughing hoarsely and scrunching up his nose in disgust of the waste left on the floor. Scraps of rotten food and debris caked the floor bed, along with a few rodents rushing to the corners of the walls.

“UGH, why are we in here??” he demanded.

I walked around the abandoned desk and shelves, and swiped my entire arm against the dusty wall. My eyes searched for the thin gap, and then when I did, my wrist flicked out the blade nesting in my wrist. Arno watched intently as I slithered the blade inside, and gave the small panel a turn, retracting the hidden blade back. The wall glided to the right, and revealed a ladder sinking into the dark abyss.

“Didn’t you want to go see your Brotherhood?” I quipped in.

“Isn’t there a….another way to it?” Arno strode to stand beside me, dropping his shoulders.

I slanted my lips, giving him a slow blink with an arched brow, “….Unless you want to go in the sewers-“

“Shall we continue our way then,” he hastened his feet onto the top bar, and started to shimmy his way down. I scoffed at his swift delivery, and followed suite to allow the hidden pathway to close above us. With a mere blink did my eyes adjust to the obscurity, and touched base on the hidden tunnel and its various passageways at the bottom.

I stared at Arno beside who waved his arm frantically for a wall, “Boy-“

Instinctively his palm gripped my upper arm, “Oh, there you are. Thought you left me for a second there.” I don’t think I could even if I tried. “Shall we…make way?” he cleared his throat, readjusting his stance but did not let me go. I didn’t fight it, and made way into the coded passageway.

It didn’t take long for Arno to try to make conversation again, or at least attempt to diffuse the silence I was keen on maintaining, “Where are we exactly?”

“A network of tunnels under the city; they lead to the hideout, if you know which way to go,” I explained, and he sounded rather suspicious of such a thing existing despite being in the thick of it.

“How long as this been here, then? Hard to believe, this method of secrecy,” he refused the logic of it, gesturing his arm out in question despite him not being able to see it, “I mean, I’m still skeptical about everything…”

Of course you were.

“From what I’ve been told, it’s been around for the past six hundred years,” I decided to provide.

“That’s….long.”

“It is,” I simply added.

“You sure you’re not bluffing?” he leaned at this a bit.

“If I were, you would’ve been in the room with the rats,” I eyed him, knowing he couldn’t see me staring, “Dead.”

“Ahh. Noted.”

Eventually, the pathways cleared, and what darkness remained rippled to a dim, orange light. Sphere lanterns hooked along the stone, murky ceilings, and the more I treaded, the more appeared. Arno’s grip on my arm loosened until he finally let go, able to walk on his own without having to trip every two minutes. The walkways provided many turns and loops, yet I remained on course to the true trail to arrive at a locked gate. A circular cut-out was stationed at where a keyhole would be.

“How do we get through this one?” he asked, jiggling the rusted bars once.

I plucked the familiar, Assassin-medallion out of my pocket, spinning it once to make the glimmer catch his eye, “To Bellac’s credit, it’s not just for show.” I set the large coin in, and pushed it roughly with a finger-

_CREAAAAK._

The mechanism above and below the gate rotated in place, and instead of the door opening, it spun vertically to part the entryway in two. With the coin back in my hand, I slid in the left side as Arno ducked quickly in the right. Looking back, the gate shifted itself back in place, and sealed us in safely.

“That’s…..unique,” Arno quipped in, though stopped when I moved myself in front of him.

The medallion was thrust into his hand, his fingers instinctively collecting around it, “Don’t lose it,” I reminded him, trekking forward.

“O-Of course,” he followed.

**You wish to change your fate, fox?**

The hideout had several, awake members, and those that were coherent enough couldn’t help their human curiosity of looking at the intruder who walked among them. Arno stuck relatively close to my side when we arrived in the Entrance Hall, though he met the direct eye contact of each person without fail, whoever challenged his space.

We met at the heart of the staircases, our feet padding to a stop on the velvet, red carpet. Above the unsuspecting, elder members of the guild preyed upon me and the Dorian boy as we halted. Sophie herself rubbed her eyes clean to make sure she was not still dreaming.

All assessing eyes locked onto Arno, and only Beylier, satisfied of his judgement addressed me, “Good morning, Elysia.”

The entire space was filled with susurrations of this unexpected event. Although, the first to quickly conclude the stranger was Bellac, and it wasn’t surprising to see him beastly glaring; knowing what I had done without even having to ask me himself.

“Master Elysia, who is it that you present?” Mirabeau declared, silencing the entire hold of hooded assassins as he lifted a hand to do so, varying colors and shapes directing their pointed fronts to signal Arno out from the aerial view.

Bellac’s teeth gritted as I met his gaze and spoke, “I have brought Arno Dorian to the Parisian Brotherhood.” The whispers rose again, this time far and few in-between as to not draw Mirabeau’s eye their way.

Something gleamed in Mirabeau’s tone, “Let us prepare the Grand Hall.” He announced ardently, delighted of this addition while the rest of the Masters shared a questioning glance. All movement was swift, though most of the assassin members remained at the bottom of the staircase, parting to allow the council members through the arched hallway.

Bellac swept his way through the marble floor, his cape flapping beside him as he made an abrupt sway to walk alongside Arno and me when we crossed underneath the main archway.

“I have a few questions,” Bellac fastened his feet on Arno’s other side, trying his best to let his elation flood his frustration. “If I may, Mentor Mirabeau.” At this did the whole fleet turn, Sophie shooting her glance between us.

_What have you gotten yourself into_, she pressed her mouth closed, her nostrils flaring a tad.

I rolled my eyes.

“Certainly, we shall fetch you when preparations are completed,” Mirabeau agreed to his request, and again led the other mentors away who gave a fleeting, questioning stare, “Secure the doors, Master Beylier.”

“You two, in here,” Bellac didn’t waste time to show his impatience, and nodded his head briskly to his left, trying his best not to drag Arno right then and there. 

We privately entered a spare room underneath the Intelligence Room, away from prying eyes and not too far from the double doors of the Grand Hall. The few, other assassins inside collected their documents and left, one in particular upset we had interrupted his non-stop binge of researching for the past two days. Now alone with Arno and I, Bellac didn’t waste time to grab the boy’s shoulder-

“Take a seat,” to lead him to a cushioned, velvet chair. He snapped it around to face us instead of the elaborate shelf. I could see the part-French man steam in place, his teeth clenched to flush his face.

“I gave you that medallion to find me, pisspot,” Bellac started, the chain at his breast pocket snapping from how hard he had leaned, gripping the chair’s head. “Instead, I find you alongside _her_. Care to explain?”

“See, about that-“ Arno lifted a finger.

“I’m listening, intently,” Bellac reinforced, making a solid frown.

“I would say finding an assassin is much better than cracking a code, don’t you think??” Arno remained solid in his tone, one thick brow raised.

“Clearly a deranged idea,” the elder thumbed at me as I stared at his finger, unphased.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Arno rebutted, and the look of exasperation on Bellac’s face was quite priceless. “Getting here wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, either.”

“_You’ve got to be kidding me_,” Bellac curled his gloved, right hand up, debated whether to punch the bookshelf right in front of him, but refused a second later. Arno and I merely watched to see him pacing, muttering a few curses beneath his teeth.

“You’re asking for too much, Bellac,” I reaffirmed, and his displeasure furthered when he saw the glimmer of amusement in my tone, “You have your work cut out for you.”

“You had him…this whole **fucking** time,” he huffed out, taking a stand in front of me, “You didn’t bother to say _anything_??”

“You didn’t ask,” I smiled.

He chuckled agitatedly, shaking his dark mane in disbelief all the while Arno exchanged his eyes between us, “Fucking unbelievable. You fucking hellcat.”

“In fact, you should be thanking me for even bringing him,” I replied next, earning a harsh stare from the boorish man. “Who knows what might’ve happened to him.”

“Over my dead body,” Bellac positioned himself in front of me, crossing his arms defensively.

“That can be arranged,” I defied back, not looking away.

“…I have a funny feeling you both don’t get along,” the sentence alone redirected Bellac’s frustration.

“Are you mocking me, boy?” Bellac eyed him sideways, menacingly I should say.

“No, no, mere observation,” Arno leaned his head back, lifting his hand to deflect the accusation. “That’s all.”

“I mean…you still have the option to decline him,” I offered to Bellac, resting a hand on my hip. Arno darted an offended pout my way. I ignored him, naturally.

This seemed to diffuse Bellac’s anger, and he rested himself back to standing up properly, his crossed limbs somewhat relaxed this time, “I didn’t spend countless hours wasted just so you can benefit from this, Elysia.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to benefit?”

“Why else did you have him for so long?” he met my gaze. I said nothing, and this faint smile arose on his face, “You can’t fool everyone with that charade of yours.”

“There isn’t one,” I reaffirmed.

He didn’t buy it, “If it helps you sleep at night.”

A knock on the door called our full attention (and somewhat saving Bellac and his plotted strangling from me), “It is time. Bring the young man for his Initiation.”

The Grand Hall had been cleared, and Arno stood in the center of the stone platform on the ground floor. The banners of the Creed remained motionless behind each Master on the upper floor, an arrangement of red and embellished gold waterfalls hung above our heads. The main doors in the hall had been closed, but prying eyes remained on the balcony in the distance; there was a clean view of the Intelligence Room, and an audience of interested, shadowed assassins and students gathered along the window arc.

Mirabeau wasn’t one to allow spectacles, but even he knew it was near impossible; Arno Dorian was finally in the Brotherhood, a name thrown around consistently for the past week, and no doubt being Bellac’s intention. He wanted this, he wanted everyone to know Arno was going to be his next apprentice.

What a damn fool.

He was too invested, this Arno. He was fresh, eager without any restrictions or boundaries for his consequences. He would be his undoing…and I wondered if Bellac already knew this.

And dared to anyways.

Arno had removed his jacket, and his eyes observed the mentor assassins with a dignified, awed look. His fingers curled in and out of their clubs, and his temple shined from the lit lanterns around. He hardly slept, indicated with the bags under his eyes, but he was more alert than I had ever seen him, ripped with anxiety.

His new goal, standing before him. Judgement day, others would call it.

“So. The son of Charles Dorian returns to us,” Mirabeau commenced the pleasantries, fixing the cuff of his sleeves as he then rested his pudgy palms on the stone balcony surrounding us. “Bellac anticipated your arrival; though, it appears you had arrived by other means.”

At this did Mirabeau direct his eyes in my general direction while I stood on the far side of the arc, stationed beside Bellac. The rest of the mentors kept their focus on Arno, intently measuring him.

“Mentor Elysia brought you,” Mirabeau pointed out simply, and smiled a little when he continued, “Care to explain?”

"Prospect of interests aligning, _Monseuir_," Arno answered curtly.

“Enlighten us, then,” Mirabeau replied just the same, and the firm response made Arno backtrack whatever sassy response he was going to give. 

Nevertheless he replied, "I….did not wholly believe in this 'Creed', I won’t lie to you. That everything Bellac had confine to me in our time in the _Bastille_ could have been real. I…had my doubts, and I needed my proof. After our separation, I ran into her, Elysia.” Arno’s eyes drifted across the room to land on me. We didn’t part.

“Go on…” Mirabeau persuaded.

Arno chose his next words carefully before looking away, “What doubts I might have had against the Brotherhood were swept under by her words, and so I’ve come to ask for your aid.”

“And what is that aid specifically?” Sophie suddenly decided to question, Bellac and Quemar looking her way, though both Beylier and Mirabeau offered her to continue. “What truly entails you to arrive, Arno? I don’t believe Master Elysia willingly brought you unless she had good reason.”

“The boy seeks redemption,” Bellac cut in, and I could see the blaze igniting in Sophie’s irises. But what Arno answered next even halted Bellac’s words, and the newfound annoyance blossomed once more in his dark eyes.

“I wish to find the killer of _de la Serre_,” he added without any hesitation, and this time caught Mirabeau’s consideration. “I know they’re out there, somewhere. Believing whole-heartedly they got away taking my step-father’s life….despite being a Templar. Redemption is a path I wish to acquire…I must do this, for the man that raised me when no one else would have.”

At this he clenched his mouth closed, as if the word ‘Templer’ had an aftertaste he wasn’t expecting. The Dorian boy was stubborn, something else he and Bellac shared in common.

**Doesn’t he remind you of someone else?**

Ugh….what the fuck. Again?

“…He shows dedication,” Quemar relented suddenly, fiddling with the curbed handle of his custom cane, his thumb stroking the metal hook at the end. “It is something to admire; six months in prison would have deterred any other man.”

“A personal matter,” Sophie was none too shy to admit, and again gained a veiled glare from Bellac. “Vendettas can deceit the mind.”

“Goals can be altered for the greater cause,” Bellac stepped in. This time they held their testing gaze…and something melancholy deepened Sophie’s shadows. As if she suddenly grew tired, or remembered something they had secretly shared. She said nothing more, perhaps knowing that reasoning with Bellac would be a day chore.

"Guilt is a powerful motivator to actions wrought by tragedy, however." Beylier studied Arno's disposition, extending a gloved hand towards his direction, "_De la Serre_'s death weighs heavily on you. To be so deeply driven by his murder could lead to a divided road; one where nothing can ever be obtained, or to find yourself never-ending in a pursuit for the next point to blame."

"I cannot keep running from the mistakes I had made for myself. If I hadn't been so careless _none_ of this would had happened." Arno stressed, forcing his hand into a club, "Neither my Father or _de la Serre_ would have perished and the world would have been all the better for it."

Beylier kept his next words short, humming (and ignoring the mention of Arno’s father purposely I noticed), "A budding argument for another time. What does matter now is the present goals of today. Not of the past or future, but now as the streets lay cracking at a moment’s notice. The Templar's Organization is in a disarray and despite...prior arrangements of a truce...we are uncertain of their next motives. It would seem at the moment, your interests and ours align." Did I sense a hint of hesitation?

“Proposing that _de la Serre_’s murderers need to be upheld to justice?” Quemar repeated thoughtfully, earning a nod from Beylier. “If we follow the trail, perhaps we can uncover the next threat that awaits to retake the Templar Order.”

This didn’t sit well with Bellac, “We have further pressing matters than chasing a possible coup within the group we’re trying to desiccate.”

“Hervé brings up a point,” Mirabeau interrupted, silencing Bellac of any further objection. “Our truce with the Templars went to rest with _de la Serre_, that much is true; the gossip of Assassin involvement didn’t do us any favors either, especially in the eyes of his daughter.”

At this did I see Arno still, and his eyes lowered to the ground. He remained eerily quiet, the same way I had seen him when I found him against the post light. Mirabeau straightened out, and something anxious grappled the back of my spine when Arno looked up to meet Mirabeau’s glance.

Quemar continued with his running thought, thudding the metal end of his cane gently on the rugged carpet beneath us. “It is most likely those that had planned this coup will succeed in line of control; it is essential we make do with what we have, and what this young man presents us.”

Beylier nodded his head up toward Arno to make us follow. “Arno Dorian, do you have any knowledge of the murder?”

Arno recollected his memory, his eyes leniently searching the air as if he were reliving it again, “I saw two men, running from the scene as I approached _de le Serre_.” His body tensed, and I could make out the strain along the edges of his eyes, “One had been injured, calling for the other to follow. I…didn’t get a good look of their faces, I was too focused on _de la Serre_.” 

“A mere memory?” Sophie exhaled, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

“Better than none at all,” Quemar eyed her, and she nodded of his reasoning surprisingly enough.

“The disorder in the Templar’s ranks is a problem we wish to deal with swiftly; the unrest of Paris’ citizens are challenging our operations in ways we have not anticipated,” Mirabeau agreed in turn, and smiled faintly at Arno, “I propose we make a decision then.”

All eyes scanned one another, and the silent nod of each person brought reassurance to Mirabeau, except when he looked my way. I kept to Arno’s figure, and he didn’t disappoint to meet me either.

“Master Elysia?” Beylier announced, aware of how quiet I had been. With all eyes swooping over to their right, as I remained still. And ruminating.

I blinked slowly, “If that is what the council deems right.”

“Do you have objections?” Mirabeau pursued, and this made Bellac question me with a look.

I didn’t meet it, knowing fully well he knew what my answer would be, “No.”

“Very well.” Mirabeau cleared his throat, and the lanterns beside us dimmed, except the lit staffs on either side of Arno to brighten his placement on the intricately-embroidered, marble floor. He readied himself, as I watched the sweat drip down his temple, and his fingers curl into his palms to diffuse his nerves.

Mirabeau exhaled once, “Out of the Dark, you come into the Light. From the Light, you will return to the Dark. Are you prepared to travel the eagle’s path, Arno Dorian?”

“I am,” Arno answered, and such a voice boomed in the cavern.

“These are the words spoken by our ancestors, words that lay at the heart of our Creed,” Mirabeau recited-

**Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember-**

“Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent,” Beylier announced next.

**Nothing is true.**

“Hide in plain sight, be one with the crowd,” Sophie declared, fastening her shoulders to remain firm.

**Where other men are limited, by morality or law, remember-**

“Never compromise the Brotherhood,” Quemar followed, clutching his staff with both palms resting casually over the hook.

**Everything is permitted.**

“Let these tenants be branded upon your mind. Follow them, be uplifted,” Bellac rung out lowly, giving Arno a slow, agreeing nod.

**We work in the dark, to serve the light.**

Silence. As they waited for me.

“Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” I discontinued from the orientation, and the sentence itself brought a stillness in the air. Arno caught my gaze with a clenched jaw, and before Mirabeau could question my sudden interference, I clutched my fingers into my grasp, ignoring the mark that threatened to seal any feeling further, “Break the tenants at your peril, boy.”

“Yes….” Mirabeau continued without another hinderance, and met Arno’s eyes directly as the Dorian obliged. “I pronounce you Novice, under Master Bellac.”

We took a moment to reflect the small silence, until Mirabeau raised his hand, and nodded once to dismiss us. I felt Bellac’s stare, yet I didn’t hesitant to move away from it, much less question it as I headed down the spiraling step to my right. Arno motioned his way to follow my stride, and only when he got too close did I halt halfway down the walkway, eying him within the shadows of my cowl. I could hear the faint feet of the other mentors walking down the steps, and a soft murmur coming from Quemar asking Sophie something I easily caught despite how well he shielded his mouth with his gloved hand—_“What was that about?” _

“What, boy?” I ordered, wishing to continue my haste.

He smiled gently, and bowed his head once, “Thank you, for bringing me to the Brotherhood.” I narrowed my eyes, seeing his smile falter a tad, but not enough to truly disappear.

“Pisspot,” Bellac strode himself over.

“And….the name calling begins,” Arno rolled his eyes at this. We both turned, Bellac positioning himself before us, though lectured Arno first, “Mirabeau wishes to talk to you.”

Before Arno could answer- “Get going,” I jerked my head in the general direction of the spiral, patterned floor, making Arno look at me one last time.

“Right…though, can you do me one favor? Before you leave?”

I sighed, “What?”

He pressed his lips together, and his fingers latched onto the fabric of his pants, “Tell Charlotte thank you, for everything.”

_The pain will come and pass._

He gave a sad smile, “I’ll try to visit when I can.” At that he moved himself away, and rushed to properly introduce himself to the Grand Master.

_I’ll make sure of it._

**Liar.**

I stared.

**He lied to you.**

“Elysia.” Bellac curtly responded. I didn’t respond or meet his way but he continued, “Don’t play your tricks on me.”

I finally faced him, meeting him eye-level properly. The mocking exchange between us before morphed to that of something serious.

“No tricks,” I answered slowly, making sure he heard me correctly. At this did he ease his stance, his shoulders resting high on either side of him. “He’s all yours.”

“I somehow don’t believe you,” he persisted.

I turned, and I could feel the anchors under my eyes from how lazily I held my eyes open.

**The pain is still here.**

“I don’t care,” I walked away.

**Yes you do.**

Bellac didn’t pursue.

It was no surprise to see them waiting for me; three inspecting mentees, their eyes looking between the group of mentors that stayed behind, and me that decided to escape the moment I could.

I made sure to close the door behind me, halting any suspecting eyes other than theirs to interrupt the formalities within, “How was Versailles?” I asked to change the subject.

"Quite something, though to say the return wasn't eventful is an understatement." James tugged at his collar, humming deeply, "The people’s demands were met that the King shall return to Paris. The _Marquis_ had little to no choice on the matter...the royal family should be here within the next few hours if they're not already here."

"_We'll see how long they last_." Clement scoffed, earning a stern gaze from James, "_They drove themselves and the rest of the country into this crisis. It's only a matter of waiting to see if they staved off dying at the guillotine or by a natural cause_."

"As you could see...it's complicated,” James finished, crossing his arms.

Stephen, on the other hand, rested his upper arm against the wall beside, his head leaning as if the door to the Grand Hall were still open, "Soooo....the kid got initiated huh?"

"You _were_ watching," I confirmed. “I saw you up at the balcony.”

Stephen gave a toothy grin, "We wanted to know when we’re gonna get to babysit again, Auntie Elysia."

My back straightened, "That's not going to happen. A new suitor for a contained chaos, and we shall leave it like that."

"Ah, so Bellac is being the asshole uncle no one likes. Shall we stage a kidnapping?” the straight-haired brunette gave a coy smile, trickling his fingers on his chin as if he were already concocting a plan.

“I don’t think that’ll be...needed, Stephen.” James cleared his throat, and met my way, “Looks like our mentor has changed her mind.”

I said nothing, but my movement forward initiated them to accept my silence as agreement, “We have matters to attend to. Let us head to the café, to discuss what Mirabeau expects of us.”

_"Was the kid suppose to join us?" _Clement inquired, slouching his shoulders and hardly keeping his eyes open.

"_Not quite...I believe it's more complicated than that_." James followed my stroll, waving for the other two to catch up. "Are...you feeling all right, mentor?" he wasn’t simpleminded.

"Fine," was the swift response. I hastened my pace.

Charlotte was none too shy to make herself known, the papers on the table practically swung from how abrupt she slid out of the seats.

"BOYS!" and she clutched each face into her palms, kissing them each on either side of their cheeks before giving all her embracing might to James who smiled nervously. Clement rubbed his cheeks vigorously to clean off the lipstick while Stephen scratched at his cheek with a smug grin.

James patted her head, "You saw me not too long ago-"

"It's been ages," Charlotte cut him off, and waved her hand frantically to beckon them to the empty, cushioned space at the side of the table. They did so, though she looked at me next, "Where is Arno??"

I exhaled firmly, already preparing for the response, "He’s not coming back."

A blank smile rested on her face.....before it turned pink, and her chest bellowed, "WHAT DID YOU DO."

I remained still, leering down at her as she stood in front of me, slapping her hands on her hips, demanding.

"He left voluntarily."

"SHOULD I BELIEVE YOU, ELYSIA."

I rolled my eyes, and the beast huffed against my gritting teeth, "Of. Course. You. Should. Because. That's. What. Happened."

"I find it hard to!” she nearly screamed.

My eyes rolled, “He went to join the Brotherhood!”

“I know how you felt about him!" she accused readily, and my eyes narrowed fiercely of her sudden taunt.

"THE BOY IS GONE TO BE AN ASSASSIN UNDER BELLAC.”

"WE'RE ALL THAT HE HAS," she insisted, the rest of the men merely glancing, Clement battling on staying awake with his face slumped in his palm. Stephen merely snacked on some cookies that had been set at the table while James rubbed his face.

"**CHARLOTTE**."

“Ohhhh, our poor Arno, lost!” Charlotte snatched her hands on my shoulders, and she sobbed into my chest, swaying my balance to and fro. I exhaled heavily; I couldn’t be mad at her, even if I tried.

"We can stage a kidnapping, Charlotte. I already offered that to Elysia." Stephen piped up, leaning over the table. He put a hand up to the side of his mouth, away from my view, despite Charlotte still clinging to me while she resorted to her soft sniffles, "I think she's just afraid the kid would pick Uncle Bellac instead of her. I'm of the opinion that Elysia would win hands down."

James pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing under his breathe, "It’s much more complicated then comparing it to a dysfunctional family...but that's a matter for another time. Unless you wish to keep Clement up for another five hours."

James peered over his shoulder, barely motioning a wave past Clement's face, grimacing on how he hardly reacted at all, "I can't tell if he fell asleep....and with his eyes open for that matter...."

"He's an elf," Stephen actually whispered, and something snapped in my head.

“I propose we-“ Charlotte didn’t even get a chance to propose-

_SLAM!_

The table jerked, my fist digging into the wood, alerting the entire squad and making Charlotte perk her face up to me, blinking innocently at my looming, darkened expression.

“End of discussion, and if I hear one more lick of this conversation, or even the mention of the boy’s name, gods help me from scorching this very goddamn planet with my very own two fucking hands,” I glowered, the edge of my mouth twitching.

“……..**HMPH**!” Charlotte spun in place, her dress swaying aggressively as her feather hat slapped against my face, her heels clicking loudly along the wooden, varnished floor. “I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON YOUR COFFEE. AND YOU’RE PAYING FOR ANOTHER TABLE.” She shut the door closed, the doorknob rattling before coming to a stop.

“…Ughhhh.” With a tray of silver, the table was served with fresh biscuits and the dark nectar; a container of fresh milk and some baked goods was also added for the three men to take delight in. I refused the temptation of downing the entire mug in one swing, instead trying to savor it in my bitter tongue.

“Our plans have changed,” I commenced, bringing some noise to the table as the males started to serve themselves.

“How so?”

“Mirabeau wants us to collect data of Templar movement in these districts,” I pulled out the file, and laid it in the middle where a map was stretched out with marked points around the several districts of Paris.

"Sounds like a good idea." Stephen commented from his seat, setting down his cup of coffee. "Just surveillance, or are we gonna do heists and assassinations as well?"

"We're going to be focusing on surveillance around sectors only. Once we give our findings to Mirabeau, he'll decide whether we proceed to eliminate targets or not," I replied. At this, James gave a sour look, Clement able to catch it even in his delirious state of mind. "Something wrong, James?" I pressured.

"No...it's...hmm..." James traced the subdivisions, drumming his fingers in counts of three, "I...know a few men that represent the Assembly here. Key figures in fact. I....just find it strange is all that Mirabeau would ask us to keep an eye here, unless someone was possibly endangering their lives."

"Well.... who else would gain from us watching the area? Are you suspecting foul play?" Stephen asked seriously, tilting his head to the side.

"Well, that's being presumptuous of me if I did." Yet James tented his fingers at this, a frown displaying, "It….strikes me as odd. I can assume most men that are in leagues of the National Constituent Assembly come from all sorts of backgrounds. I would think most come from common birth, not of conspiracies of Templars and Assassins likes. If they were, then why haven't we've seen their names or heard of their mal-intentions."

"Hmm, if you're sure. I don't think it's presumptuous of you though, James." Stephen stated, leaning back in his seat. "If you think something is wrong, then you're probably right. Better to make plans for the worst-case scenario than to go in and be surprised, right?"

Here we go again.

"But that is...very above our level is what I'm trying to say, Stephen. It's a matter of this country's very system...of what it wants to become and who is trying to shape and mold it. That's...beyond even what the Assassins should be of influence of.”

_“He has a dangerous mindset.”_

_“He’s my student.”_

_Quemar didn’t backdown, “Does it matter?”_

“I mean, bravo Connor for _aiding_ Revolutionary figures and what not...but that's not to say all those that he aided were good either. I've heard a few whispers before I had left London that George Washington is from a Templar family....you would think our first objective is to kill Templars. It's so much more complicated than that now...everything is tied to everyone."

_“His objectives contradict our goals!”_

_“That’s not for you to decide!”_

_“And how do you think Mirabeau will respond? Think he will take your side, Elysia?”_

"Hmmm.... if you say so." Stephen hummed out, taking a drink of his coffee. Once he put it back down he spoke again. "So, what do you think we should do then? Do what Mirabeau wants? Or just say fuck it?"

"….Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself."

_“If you don’t do something about it, I will.”_

Stephen lifted his cup, muttering the rest of his sentence against the rim, "But if he's letting Bellac get away with whatever the fuck he wants, it is probably the worst case…."

_“The same goes for Stephen.”_

“You are all still under scrutiny among the Creed, may I remind you,” I pointed out gently, but with enough edge to the sentence. “We do as Mirabeau orders, whether we want to or not.”

Stephen drank some more of his coffee, muttering again, “Mirabeau can go suck a toad.”

James didn’t quite catch it, but continued to finish his thought, "I understand Mentor, I was only pointing out the...strange coincidence."

"Whether it's strange coincidence, our job is to secure the locations. Anything after, we'll have to wait for instruction. That is all." I tapped my nail onto the map again, "Pick your locations, three each."

But the mood has been set, and the further it lurked in the air…

"He's not my real dad, he can't tell me what to do..." Stephen was growing increasingly untamed in his words. "Y'know, we're both Masters, right Elysia? Why do they gotta treat us like inductees? We earned this title, damnit."

_“He would be wise to learn his place.”_

I stared at Stephen directly, a firm line inflicting on my lips, "But you're not home....are you, Stephen."

His discontented eyes met me, a stubborn frown on his lips, "It shouldn't matter if I'm home. A Master is a Master.”

_“You wasted Clement’s potential.”_

_“You have no right to say that; the audacity.”_

_I didn’t fallback, “He deserves better.”_

“The skills speak for themselves. We should have the respect we earned with the title. I'm not telling them that they aren't qualified Masters, just because I'm from a different Brotherhood-"

_“It’s certainly not with **you, Elysia**.”_

"Listen, Stephen.” The flames poured out of my mouth, and this dark cloud loomed over my eyes as I stood up, clutching the table with my digits, “It's been years you've been singing the same tune, but the fact is, a Master is not a Master in this century. I gave you the option to leave or to stay. That being said-" I exhaled, my eyes narrowed to gold speckles, "Do not be the next Dorian boy; frankly I've run out of patience today for that. Don't. Test. Me. Today."

Stephen's lips thinned, his eyebrows furrowing to dark his once bright gems, "I'm not stupid, Elysia. It's just frustrating that it seems like Mirabeau is taking this branch of Brotherhood in a bad direction-“

**You’re going to get them killed, you know that.**

“STOP. TALKING.” Stephen placed down his cup, a small pout resting on his face. Unaware, oblivious; all three staring in utter silence as the sound of passing civilians hummed from outside. And my bones, they tingled within my flesh, vibrating with this infliction I suppressed once more.

**What will you do then?**

Silence still.

Until, “I just want to help.” Stephen relented, and stared at his cup. Discouraged.

"It's….not our place to decide what's best for France or not, Stephen." James admitted tentatively, trying his best to not stare at me the whole time, "This is not our country...we're only mere observers."

"Doesn't make it suck any less, though."

I know Stephen meant well.

"No, but it will pass. It always does. Give or take another ten years."

I know James meant well.

Stephen sighed, putting his forehead on the table. His voice was muffled when he spoke, “Ten more years.... it's times like this that I miss my boyfriend...."

I know Clement meant well.

“Wait, what was that-“

“Pick your spots,” I insisted, and this alerted them. Sensing my exasperation. My exhaustion. But they didn’t argue.

Stephen was quick to scan the parchment, twirling his fingers suggestively before picking the three spots nearest to the west side. James gestured for Clement next, who groggily picked up the map, squinted his eyes questionably before cracking one eye fully open.

"_These_," he replied swiftly, picking the north.

"Then I shall take the south-end," James nodded, lending the map back to me.

"_Do simple recon, no further actions_," I replied, watching Clement nod drowsily before letting his head fall on the table. Next, a soft snore radiated beneath the wood.

"As you command," James agreed, but I avoided his gaze.

“Wake Clement up in thirty minutes,” I announced, collecting the map and stuffing it in the folder. I watched the two, but not enough to give them time to assess my tone, “Then set out for your courses. We’ll meet in two days.”

And I left them at the café.

The buzzing of the square’s activity was leaving me a small headache; people were already marching, making it apparent they were still displeased of the city’s arrangements. The Women’s March proved successful, but it was obvious; the results were not fast enough, and this further angered the enslaved French. I did my best to remember the pathway I took when leaving Orfeo’s café, but it was proving difficult when my memory bank was being shrouded in other….trivial matters. Nevertheless I made it to a main sector of a street, and my own savior came running to me instead of me to him-

“Elysia!!” The young teen dashed his way over, a smile widely stretching across his face, his arms vibrating excitedly in front of him as he jumped in place, “_I was about to make my rounds! Ready to go_?”

**It would be easier to just let go.**

I nodded simply, “Lead the way.”

I welcomed Jacques’ chatter, and the way he talked about everything and anything he could think of (to serve as a good distraction). He was an odd little thing, flailing his limbs around so much I honestly thought they would detach at some point, like some doll. He also had this particular thing where he wiped his nose occasionally on his sleeve, despite not really being sick or sniffing.

His back and shoulders were burdened with sleeved and compacted goods, tied quite impressively so he was still mobile and free to walk. From a distance, I bet he looked like some kind of tortoise with a mess of a mane.

What a weird human creature……thing.

“_I hear the King’s back_,” he replied at some point after giving one package to a client, setting his pace to a leisure. We had set our way into the _Ventre de Paris_ district further north, not too far from where we had started.

I inspected around closely to stray away the onlookers who saw Jacques stash his currency in his pouch, “_How do you know that_?” It was a nicer area, sure, but even the wealthy didn’t know when to limit their statuses when they already had….everything else.

“_My mother mentioned it to our neighbor. It’s funny, she thinks she’s quiet but I can hear everything she says_,” he whistled, swaying his shoulders as if he were six feet tall, impenetrable now that I was with him. “_She’s not good at keeping secrets from me_.”

“….._What kind of secrets_?” I tested, arching a brow.

He tapped his chin at this, swinging one order in his other hand like it were a woven basket, “_She doesn’t know that I know where her sugar stash is. She thinks she can keep all the sweets from me. But she’s wrooooooong_.”

I honestly don’t know what I was expecting, “_Anything else_?”

“_She practices with a sword at night_,” he was quick to reply.

“…_A sword_?”

“_A sword_.”

“_The weapon, right_?” I went to clarify.

“_Sure issss_,” he nodded. “_She hides it under her mattress. I’ve used it twice_.”

“_Did you break anything_?”

“No.” He answered too quick, and his eyes shifted to the side as I leaned a bit to catch them. “_I didn’t break anything. What are you talking about? Of course I didn’t. No way. Not me_.”

“……_You’re lying aren’t you_.”

“Noooooooooooo,” he coughed, rubbing his nose clean again, “_Look there’s the next place_!” He scurried off as I waited at the corner of the street, keeping myself leaning in the shadows from the awakened sun. When he arrived back, he moved the topic along, purposely, skipping over until he nearly rammed himself into my hip, “_Do you have any secrets_?”

I thought for a moment, “_Yes. Everyone does_.”

“_Oooh, oohhh, can you tell me one_?” his eyes enlarged at this, adjusting the few packages left around his waist, walking again. “_I told you twooooo_.”

“_They weren’t your secrets, Jaq_.”

“_They’re my mom’s, it still counts! I’m her son_,” he jittered beside me, slapping at my arm excitedly. “_Tell me tell me tell me tell me_-“

“_Alright, fine. I’m immortal_,” I replied, slowing my walk when his did.

His mouth opened, for a good few seconds, before his eyes narrowed questionably, “……_No you’re noooooooooooot. You’re not old_.”

“_Oh yeah, I’m super old_.”

“_How old, then_?”

“_So old I lost count_,” I added.

“….Hmm…” he rubbed his chin at this, staring upwards to the sky in thought. Seriously contemplating. “_That sounds old_.”

“Mhmm,” I nodded, drumming my fingers on my hips.

“………._Are you lyiiiing_?” he whipped his head around, looking up at me directly into my hood.

I scoffed, slightly smirking, “_Of course not. What makes you say that_?”

“_I can’t tell if you’re lying-smiling_,” he pouted, “_Tell me one more secret then, and I’ll see if I believe you_.”

“_I have an undying and unquenchable rage inside my body_,” I answered.

“…….._Okay, I believe you_,” he nodded in understanding. “_You and Orfeo have a lot in common._”

“…._Is that right_?” I scrunched my brows, giving him a good look. “_You think he’s also immortal_?”

“_I don’t know if he’s immortal…….but he gets so angry like the old people I’ve seen. He also has those hundreds of lines on his face, you know_-“ he curled his fingers between his brows, indicating being upset, “-_and he hardly sleeps. Maybe that’s why he’s always cranky_.”

“….Interesting.”

“_He also has a sailor’s mouth. My mom doesn’t like that, but she says she understands_.”

“_Sounds like you’ve known him for some time_.”

“_It’s been…..maybe three years now_?” How odd. “_He’s kept me safe though; I like Orfeo_.”

“_Hmm…good to know_.”

“_Do you like Orfeo_?”

I rolled my eyes, “_We’re at the next stop. We’re almost done_.”

We remained on task, and it was enough for Jaq to get distracted to not further our previous conversation. We made quick work to avoid the crowded districts, and once or twice resorted to alleyways to secure a safer route despite taking longer to get there. Overall, the customers were thankful of the orders, though something caught my eye. The last four deliveries were given without a cent to Jaq, and I made quick note to see we strode into a lesser part of the district. I said nothing until we had finally completed the rounds. Jaq secured the pouch in his pocket, making sure he still had it and had not dropped it randomly along the way.

“_Why did those people not give you money_?”

“_They’re special deliveries_,” Jaq answered, giving a small, understanding smile. “_Sometimes they like to give bread for free, especially to people who really need it_.”

What the hell was up with this man.

“Is that so?” I narrowed my eyes, deciphering if it was deception or obliviousness in his tone….but I didn’t catch either. After all, he had been talking to me truthfully this whole time. “_That’s….awfully nice of him_.”

“_Even if people are cranky, they can also be nice_!” he beamed. I hummed, focusing on recognizable street ahead. “_Kinda like you_!”

“…..Thanks, Jaq.”

“_No problem_.” This _kid_.

Jaq kept ourselves occupied as he continuously babbled the entire way back to the _Le Marais _district. I kept him company, and for some reason, I didn’t deter nor make a motion to silence him and his silly antics. It was definitely mind-numbing for this early afternoon.

But such a moment was short-lived.

“Hey, you!”

The pathway ahead was blocked, despite the numerous, active civilians outside. Jaq froze in place, and I followed his view to see a group of men creating a line, delaying our progress to finish Jaq’s work for today. I didn’t recognize them, but one with his arm in a cast caught my eye.

“There she is! The wench!” the curly haired man bellowed with a pointed finger. This alarmed several pedestrians to clear the way, the cold air of the season drifting through the open space to hit against Jaq and me. From standing so close to me, I could feel the young boy tense, taking a step back from the problem that would soon commence unwelcomely.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you, brat!” the center threat was someone I had not seen before. It was a man who was balding with dirty blond sideburns and had these vicious, cerulean eyes and skin to match his white anger. His cheeks were decorated with small dents much like Mirabeau’s, indicating his picking habits as a child. His jaw was slacked, and it was either because of his arrogant behavior, or took too many punches to the face as he aged. I had a feeling of his identity by looking at the white, chef clothing he wore, much like Orfeo and Maduka’s.

“_Who is this_?” I asked Jaq to verify.

“…._That’s Henri, the keeper of the other shop_,” he reminded me, fiddling with his brown, woven scarf.

I nodded, “Noted.”

“And you!” the competitor arranged his glare to me, and then indicated to the man on his right, “You did this to Gustav!”

“I did,” I answered, but I don’t think he had intended for it to be a question.

“You’ll pay for it, but first, I’ll deal with what the little maggot!” he snapped his arm to the side, indicating to the new, three ruffians he had hired. Did the one name Gustav not tell everyone what had been the outcome before? “Hand him over, be quick about it!”

I blinked, but nodded once, “Fine.”

“W-What?” Jaq double-taked, staring up at me in disbelief, which also caught the men before us off-guard as well.

“Alright…..good!” the one named Henri proudly grinned of this easy win.

“_Take the boy_,” I gestured nonchalantly, and even took a step to the side, leaving Jaq open for the taking.

“E-Elysia?” the tone in Jaq’s voice shifted to worry, but I remained firm in my offer.

“Go on then, grab him and the money!” Henri ordered, signaling the brutes. Two hesitated, but the leanest one adjusted his hat, and approached Jaq with a swaggering step. Jaq froze in place, betrayed of my sudden sacrifice of him, and eyed the approaching enemy with a fierce, unforgiving look, his hands curling to defend himself.

“_Give it here boy_\- AHH!” the hand that nearly touched the teen withdrew like it had been scorched, and the man’s cry of pain sounded out brutally. “YOU BITCH!” Further inspection when he lifted his hand, a hidden dagger had sunk itself fully into his palm, leaking red all around his feet. He staggered back, but regained footing as he reached for the pistol on his waist-

_ZIP_.

I was right in front of him, the pistol clutched in my hand. He stumbled, and instead moved to elbow me-

“Dumbass.” With a duck and a swipe, my free hand clutched the side of his neck, and _down_ he went, the side of his head smacking straight into the ground where he was instantly out.

“W-What the hell?!” the shopkeeper growled, and was fully committed to his words now, “_Don’t just stand there, deal with her_!”

**BAM**!

A shot screamed into the air, and the crowd of pedestrians scattered, all screaming in terror from the sound alone. They all ducked and weaved around the crates and alleyways, afraid the bullet had marked them a victim. Instead, Henri and his hired goons turned, and I could see Orfeo’s solid form, and the way his eye swirled angrily at the opposition Jaq and I faced.

“_Bloody nuisance_,” the shopkeeper sneered.

"_Henri, what a damn pleasure it is to see you out and about in broad daylight_." Orfeo reloaded the rifle, making sure it echoed loud enough to draw a point, "_Gives me hope you actually have a pair to settle this like the rat you are_."

“_You think hiring a bodyguard will do you any good_?” the shopkeeper remained unopposed, trying his best to be quick; the guards would be arriving soon. “_We have a score to settle, and I intend on finishing it, and **you**_.”

"_You shouldn't have made the mistake of forcing your cousin into my employment then_." Orfeo rolled his eyes, undeterred of making his point, "_I bet it cost you more sticking him in shit then hoping you can get away with my money_."

“You should have gone to fucking jail!” Henri growled, and pointed his finger toward me where I remained semi-glaring. “You can’t always be there to protect that brat!”

“And you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” I replied.

“You fucking-“

“_Stop, citizens_!” The sprinting steps of a group were turning around the bend.

“_Hold onto the bag, Jaq_,” I swiftly stepped to him, and hooked my arm around his waist. I lifted him with one swoop, his legs scrambling from how abrupt I had picked him up. My other fingers dug with a pluck, two small spheres flying out of my grasp. When they hit the floor, an angry hiss played out, and a mass of smoke erupted, concealing the entire section of street from the searching eyes of the guards.

“_This isn’t over_!” Henri’s voice boomed, his steps disappearing along with his lackeys. I stepped quickly and quietly, running alongside Orfeo who jerked his head at my sudden appearance at his right. He said nothing, and I slowed my pace to keep beside him. The frantic rings of bells bombarded the entire sector, the shop just in view when we cut away from the smog.

“Hurry!” Pierre’s voice hissed from behind the prying door, and we jolted ourselves inside to dim out the hollering ruckus outside.

I walked forward to the center of the shop, the door slam signaling Pierre to cover the windows with set curtains, Maduka peeking from the slit at the edge to make sure we weren’t followed. They must’ve known something had happened from how they anticipated our arrival. It was safe to assume Orfeo had made a big deal leaving, especially with a gun in hand.

“Oh, Jaq you’re safe,” Pierre held onto his chest, his mustache flapping from how hard he had exhaled. “_Did anyone die_??” He immediately stared at Orfeo who scoffed, but didn’t answer as he placed the weapon on the counter. Disappointed that no one did, I was sure.

“…_Someone has a dagger in their hand_-“ Jaq was interrupted with a happy sigh.

“_This is IMPROVEMENT_,” the shop owner plopped himself on a free chair, wiping his sweaty forehead with a spare, red cloth. “_Elysia you’re the answer to my prayers_.”

“_Jaq is safe, and so is your money_,” I stated, and approached the counter. I eyed the baked goods, “_I’m ready to make my selection_.”

"Take as much as you'd like." Pierre gestured his hand towards the shelves, "We have these experimental _la pâte à choux_ I'm sure you'll find a delight. They are absolutely delicious with coffee--Maduka, give her whatever she requests."

Orfeo, who had remained mumbling of the ridiculous confrontation moments ago suddenly stopped, and when I turned to look, he held a harsh glare towards Pierre's direction. I narrowed my orbs to access, watching Pierre stiffening in his chair.

"_I mean--if you can please assist her_,” Pierre revised his sentence, and it didn’t take long to guess why.

The _sous_ chef named Maduka said nothing, and it was almost robotic on how he walked to man the counter. Clear tension, the entire shop was riddled with it that even Jaq said nothing, and merely seated himself to count the money we had acquired.

Before Maduka could grab the small crate behind him, “_Only one will do_-“ I corrected genteelly, catching Maduka’s eye from how soft my voice had gotten. “_The one in your hand is fine with me_.”

The dark-skinned man remained quiet for a moment, scanning my face diligently that I could have sworn he was trying to catch every stitch my cowl visibly had. The eyes behind me watched in silence, but Maduka didn’t argue nor protest, and simply held out the wrapped, baked good. I took it gently, Maduka’s scarred fingers splaying like a wing to release his hold.

A man who had grown up taking orders….it was no surprise to see him…. dubiously skimming for my motives.

"_Are you sure_??_ Only one, Elysia_??" Jacques skipped over, balancing himself against the counter as I fixed the bread in its napkin properly. "_I would've taken at least five if I had that chance_!"

I found myself shifting on my heel a bit, finding the words, “_I agreed to one per day; I keep my word_.” The shop grew quiet, all eyes shifting amongst one another.

It was Pierre that broke the silence, his voice cracking, "_God where have you been all my life_??"

"I swear to Christ, Pierre. Lay it off." Orfeo rubbed his temple of his ridiculous antics, then faced me, "You’re done, now get out."

I challenged Orfeo directly, “I would like to talk to you. In private.”

"........Fine." His stare hardened, unsure but resolute to quickly resolve my unknown issue. He walked around the counter, ignored Maduka’s glance, and pressed his hand to the back door of the counter, "Through here."

I bowed my head to Maduka, who again stared, his eyes open by a small fraction. Both Pierre and Jaq stayed absolutely still until I rounded the front as well, and voluntarily situated myself beside Orfeo.

The scent of his being was immense in the thinned hallway, and I felt his observation grow behind me as I led the way. I almost wondered why he chose this pathway, but the door at the end answered my question; it was a backway, secluded from those lurking in the store, and brick walls belonging to the surrounding businesses. I turned in step, seeing Orfeo close the door to confirm our privacy.

It was different to see him, alone. Without the outside world, the chaos, and how dark his eyes had actually evolved to.

And how angry he looked.

The light of the afternoon also exposed what features had hidden away from me before, and this man looked nothing like the Orfeo I had seen three hundred years ago (the same conclusion I came to when I had first seen him); he had been approachable before, and something dramatically changed in his idle expression. His eyebrows were naturally furrowed, almost permanently set to always look troubled and unimpressed. The smirk from before was still there, but not so easily accessible now, and especially with me. I had a good fraction of guesses as to why, but I knew pursuing them would lead to…..unwanted conversations. Again, his skin had taken a small coloring to it, as if he had been in the sun for so long, and I wondered if that’s where he had been stuck all this time. Then again, I was unsure of he had actually left France when he said he did….

Yet, that wouldn’t explain the massive intake of darkness his body was spewing that was so apparent each time.

It was all over, unafraid to make itself known despite being invisible to those who couldn’t sense it. It kept its distance away from my Twilight having learned from before, almost as if there were some kind of truce they had made. Again, his wing was there, but rested on his back like a hologram, flickering in and out depending on how uneasy he was.

It debated heavily with me, and I had to blink a few times to ignore it completely.

Perhaps I had stared for too long, because Orfeo arched a brow in question.

“Well? What do you want?”

“What’s the story.” He held a stern gaze, wanting me to elaborate. “With the other shopkeeper,” I finished.

"Henri." Orfeo rolled his eyes. He debated with himself to actually tell me, until his shoulder touched against the wall behind him, "To keep it simple--the guy makes shit for food. Thinks he can get away with putting hay and dirt in his dough and rob those that buy it.”

“Oh…..you’re not kidding,” I met his stare. “I thought you were exaggerating.”

"He puts shit in there too, but you didn't hear it from me.”

My face contorted.

He saw it even within my cowl, and he couldn’t help but lightly grin at my reaction, “Or you did, you can tell him yourself. I'm sure he'll _love_ it."

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

Supremely unorthodox that we were having a normal conversation right now, somewhat. Maybe it was because we were ignoring the obvious fact.

But I rolled with it, “So what part did you play in this?”

He was….quite amused of having my attention, “So we opened the store a few years back and did better, stealing all his 'revenue'. Now people know where to buy decent bread from in this district and he's all fucking mad about it."

“I doubt that was the end of it,” I replied next. I also had a feeling that Orfeo was the one that started this entire mess as well.

But didn’t pressure that, for now.

"Of course it isn't. So he tried slandering me, but I've played this game better than him and got proof of 'where' he's getting his grains from.” He grew a tad comfortable, and slanted his hip enough that he put all his weight on one leg. “Turns out he bribed guards and some local governance with 'quality' bread if he got his grains personally delivered. People don't like hearing things like that nowadays....his windows were busted for weeks in protests.”

“I’m…sure he didn’t like that,” I added.

“Things escalated from there on; he's getting brutes to attack Jaq, he tried blackmailing Pierre thinking he's the money behind this establishment, and then he sent that cousin of his to steal our money for--you wanna guess--his own supply of grain. Can't say I regret not splattering his blood across his window to get the message across."

“The one you killed.”

He crossed his arms at this, taking pride of that recognition alone, “The very one.”

“Anything else you’re leaving out?” I asked next. “Something I should know, since I’m now involved.”

His darkness at this wavered, wanting to deny my very sentence, “I said I had it handled, and I meant it,” he answered instead. “One way or another, it's going to end with him." Maybe Jaq was oblivious to Orfeo’s true nature, as well as everyone here. Then again, it would be foolish to thing he could keep his nature secret.

“From an outside view,” I started, and gestured to the side with a slight curl of my fingers, “I don’t think you have it handled.”

"It's all on perspective; it shouldn't even matter to you."

I pushed a hand on my hip, and eyed him, “I saw the way you got angry.”

This triggered something, and he was biting back on telling me what he really wanted to reveal. His jaw clenched, and his fists curled within the folds of his sturdy arms. His darkness sunk to the ground, and I made out the threads that coiled and sucked onto the walls around us. They rose, some teasingly hovering over me, while others dared not to.

"Anyone would get mad, it’s only natural." He defended, staring flatly, "What I don't find natural is your involvement in all this."

I shrugged mildly, sighing with a small roll of my eyes, “A lot of things in the world are unnatural, Orfeo. I think I’m the least of your worries, unless you haven’t gotten over our last encounter.” He scoffed loudly, unimpressed.

"Didn't take you to be immortal so it does add to it." Orfeo held an icy stare, "But it’s not so much the encounter but who you're likely associated with still.”

There it fucking is.

“I can assure you that I’m tied to nothing of the past,” my answer was sound and resolute, earning a perplexing tilt from Orfeo. “You honestly need to let that go.”

"And you need to shut your mouth over business that you don't understand." Seriously?

“Clearly, that’s not happening because I’m involved either way.” I leaned at this, “Get. Over. It.”

Orfeo's lips drew to a line, his chest huffing from my sour attitude, "You know what, I'm done talking with you. You're exactly like him, talking to a fucking wall."

No. No he didn’t.

**This asshole. **

“Give me a reason to-“ I neared, and spat my breath against his face, “and I’ll be the most insufferable, malicious being in your goddamn life, **Corvus**.”

"You're fucking out of your god damn mind." Orfeo hissed, and met my step, leering down at me intently. "Get the hell out. **We're done here**."

There they were.

A flicker, a grasp of crimson in his irises, leaking along the rounded edges.

“Until tomorrow,” the corner of my lip twitched, and the Twilight in my body spurred, kicking at my heels. I yanked my hood back, meeting his eyes directly, challenging and raw, “Have my bread ready. Only the best for **me**.”

"So whatever Henri is making. Got it."

“That’s not what we agreed on.”

He threw his head back at this, and lifted his hand to point at my cheek, "I didn't agree on anything.”

“Don’t play smartass with me.”

“You can take it up with Pierre, you know, the one you actually made the deal with."

“Who owns a third of the shop, along with Jaq’s mother who is grateful of my involvement. You mean both of your business partners???”

Orfeo forcefully opened the door, "**LEAVE**.”

I snorted, and tugged my hood down forcefully down so my fingers barely brushed against the tip of his nose before turning abruptly down the hall. I made haste through the shop-

"Elysia-- what did he say to you? Did he threaten you with that blasted rifle of his?? Please tell me he didn't!" Pierre hurried to block the doorway, almost losing his step.

“....No, he didn’t, but his tongue matches it just fine.” I replied gently, and merely moved Pierre aside easily with one arm. “He’ll make my treats tomorrow. He’s a...good boy.”

"....Pardon me??" Pierre's brows tightened at the last part of the sentence, rubbing at his ear, "I don't think I heard that right--"

"_Awwww, are you leaving now, Elysia_?” Jaq scurried himself over from the back kitchen, rocking on his heels in place. “_Same time tomorrow_?”

I reached over, and patted his head briefly, “_Of course, Jaq. Until then_.”

"_Heh, okay. See you tomorrow_~" He waved me goodbye with Pierre as I stepped out, and once I was around the bend did I stop, catching my breath in the darkness of the alleyway.

Maybe….this wasn’t a good idea.

I still had time to change my mind.

And yet…

Why didn’t I leave all those years ago, then??


	7. Entrelacés

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yo. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this new chapter to see what we have in store for the moody children. 
> 
> December kinda sucked but the few good days made it durable, so I'm hoping for a different pace this coming January. Thanks for sticking around guys, and we hope you'll keep reading in the new year. 
> 
> Until next time, peaaaace.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> -Keys~
> 
> Excuse any typos, I'll fix em laterrrrr

Events are fickle, but time is resolute.

It had been five months since Arno’s Initiation. His once lionized presence that had been so pungent in the cavern chambers had dwindled to nothing but a mere thought. Despite this _win_ he achieved, Bellac remained in solitary of the boy’s progress, unkeen on letting others dictate or guide him in any other direction but his own. What remained a large step in Arno’s life was closed off to me the minute I gave him up that day I brought him.

And that was probably for the best.

I descried him on several occasions within the Brotherhood, fleeting glimpses of his back or side mostly with that tied, scarlet-red ribbon holding his hair. Arno was never abandoned nor alone, always at his Mentor’s side whenever he was within the confinements of the hideout; a young man with a young face and young experiences, surely everything would be done to shape him into this…..great assassin he had the _potential _of becoming. Who knows, maybe Bellac was actually doing the right thing, for once.

Bellac’s face frequented my view multiple times throughout the weeks, but I let it slide on the account that he harangued me less and less of our accustomed routine. Oddly enough, we accepted each other’s company without complaint, and at times that rose brows with the rest of the Masters when they saw our changed display. It was never questioned what we had shared right after the Initiation, almost as if everyone refused to expose an established wound.

Because things used to be different long ago.

Aside from Bellac’s nasty attitude, I would give credit where credit is due: Bellac had over-achieving credentials despite his personality flaws. He was a resourceful and assertive member, and showed his abilities well whenever we went out to the field when we had first met. I got used to his crude humor over the years, and his blunt explanations served me a good laugh from time to time over trivial things; we agreed on a lot of issues pertaining to classes and law reform, but even when we disagreed we never went to the extensive lengths to hold it over each other’s heads (as we did now). We had battling logic on several missions but always somehow agreed to take stealth over any other tactic; Bellac and I accepted our variances and we worked well together almost fluidly, I dare say we were the perfect duo to tackle high-risk missions at a successful high-rate when they were presented…..until a point.

A mission had gone wrong, and a lot of assassins died.

Bellac insisted something could’ve been done to overturn this outcome, to save half of his squad of trained assassins that had been caught in the fray while my team of James and Stephen at the time managed escape. Fate had planned differently, and Bellac took offense to that; something in his personality…shifted. To an insufferable degree. Like that incident alone had awoken a slumbering secret in his mind, and his once approachable demeanor and occasional, playful smile was gone.

I didn’t like this new Bellac….or this preexisting version of himself.

And it wasn’t only with me he changed demeanor; Quemar and Bellac had been close once upon a time. Now, it was common to catch Quemar sitting alone in the main hall of the upper floor, a book in his hand while an empty chair on his left was occupied by someone else that wasn’t the half-French man. Beylier and Sophie had their arguments with the shaggy assassin, but they too expressed their concerns to him directly in hopes that he would understand their worry, yet none of that played out well whenever Bellac got defensive.

_“You dare criticize the way I run my missions?”_

_“That’s not what we’re trying to say, Bellac-“_

_“Let’s see you do it better!”_

_“We’re just trying to help!”_

Mirabeau oddly remained silent of it all, and merely adjusted his level of speaking; what else were you to do but manage your team of Masters in some way?

_“We must come to an understanding: Master Bellac is working through this turmoil by his own means, and we must respect that.”_

Bellac grew guarded, alert, and somewhat…paranoid of everyone that was around him. He wanted to know where everyone was and what they were doing, and for the life of me, I couldn’t stand being questioned every minute of the day of what his micromanaging method had risen to. He turned hostile in his hawk-like methods until one day, I snapped at him; Bellac called me a slur. I threw a book at him. The only Master around to separate us from our brannigan was Beylier.

And that’s where we are today.

Unable to be in each other’s presence without some kind of scuffle or snap playing. That changed as of late and it was no suspicion to guess: Arno Dorian reformed Bellac…but for how long and how far? Then again, I was occupied with other battling issues.

James didn’t like our assigned tasks to a visible degree, and raised a continuous concern about what we were doing.

He wasn’t one to make a ruckus for the sake of it; there was a reason for everything he did, and that was honestly his greatest flaw when I had come to grow accustomed to him. It wasn’t that he counted in sixes occasionally, or that he dared to never cross underneath a stationary ladder in the library whenever he had to reach for a book. It wasn’t when he rotated his mug three-quarters with the handle facing west every time or dared not to touch Clement’s first feline that was as dark as the night sky when he had first brought it in.

I didn’t like that he cared…so much about things. About issues. About people, the customs, this country. And now, these men we were chosen to spy on. Yet, James battled with me on every front; something about politics, another ethics, morals and code of conduct on all fronts. He questioned again and again, never tired nor faltering of trying to make me see whatever he saw. A true, lawful citizen of France oddly enough.

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” James answered, his tone firm and brows furrowed, “It doesn’t make _sense_.” Arguing for the fifth time this week. My patience with James was favorable compared to Stephen and Clement, nonetheless he hit my last nerve.

I handed him the folder, slapping it against his straightened chest, “I’m ordering you to do this, and you will do it, James. You are _my _student; take it.” He inspected the bounded leather, an exhale slowly expelling out and his crystalized eyes scanning within my cowl. A sign that he was frustrated when I saw his freckles flare and I could see the muscle of his neck tighten from how hard he was clenching his jaw. 

“_Oui_, Master Elysia,” he gently gripped the package with digging fingers, but his venom tone and swiping wrist couldn’t be camouflaged entirely, especially when he rarely used my whole title. I let it slide, watching Stephen and Clement (who instantly recognized our quarrel) right behind him like a pack of adopted cats.

Then again….James never steered me wrong. So, why in fact was Mirabeau trying to keep tabs on so many people but assassinate none of them? It wasn’t the first time we’ve had to deal with Austrian spies (whatever they were), or Templars in disguise….Why was this different?

Someone like James wasn’t one to let things go unobserved.

He knew his hunches.

But I couldn’t risk it. Him, all of it, every one of them.

**You’re going to get them killed.**

**You know that, right?**

The economy of France got worse.

These imposed taxes leeched continuously from the struggling civilians, and the stores that were so rampant with businesses were now being cautioned to close early; mobs of people tarnished and invaded several locations of the penurious districts, taking what they could from clothes, to food, to the bread that was becoming the livestock of the city. The riots increased tenfold, as did the national security and the political party that arose to fame: Jacobins. 

From what I was informed, there was heavy dispute of what their initial goal was, but it was too early to pinpoint their origin (though stated continuously that they originated straight across from the Assembly building that I had gone to months before). They made themselves known, and were not afraid to expose themselves either; they advocated for fairness, and plagued the streets with violence and ideals that suited best for the conservative members within the group rather than the Paris they were fighting for. Those deemed Royalists (or suspected those who continued the ideal reign of the present king) were struck down to the very cobblestone they dared walk upon, or remained lucky to live in the richer and safer districts.

This was organized chaos, and Charlotte along with the rest of the manor grew concerned.

The maid Josephine and Sebastian had left due to personal and safety reasons, only leaving the newest Bridgette and old-attendance Marceline to tend to the chores while Grisier agreed to aid maintaining the manor’s physique. Mathias hardly left the place, and to Charlotte’s constant worry, eventually spent the night several times due to the arising circumstances around his neighborhood. He practically lived here, but that raised no concern.

What did were the finances.

It was apparent the manor would go down; it was only a matter of time when.

The cut pay from the two absent servants extended the building’s security, as did my continuous contribution of the Creed’s pay. Still Mathias struggled to make it work, until finally he announced Charlotte’s fear on a rainy afternoon.

“_If we don’t do something soon…we’ll go under, Charlotte_,” Mathias expressed as quietly as possible. It was no match for my hearing as I stood eerily still by the door, leaning my back against the wall. “_You must reason with Elysia, please. I’m begging you. We’ve worked so hard to make this work, to let this go to waste_.”

“_And if we’re attacked again_?” Charlotte was a tough woman…but such an event imprinted on her; I had never seen her quiet, but that’s what I was rewarded that day when I found them all huddled together, prepared for the worst. “_What will we do then_?”

Mathias sighed, “…._I’ll see what I can do_.”

We both knew he was right.

The trips to Orfeo’s café were a good distraction when Spring settled.

The loquacious Jaq chattered cheerily with money in hand, giving a jump in his step whenever we turned around the usual corner leading to the bakery. It was as if Henri’s presence hardly mattered, especially when we treded right past it at the end of Jaq’s shifts. No longer did the teen cower, and instead grinned broadly, wiggling my arm as we drew closer.

“_You’ll like the treats today_!” he grinned, jumping up and down so much his hat nearly toppled off. He scrambled for balance, holding onto the nearby tree whose leaves bloomed with the new greenery of the season. His crooked teeth flashed up to me, and he swept away his longer bangs aside to look at me properly. He really needed a haircut at this rate.

“_You think I’ll have to fight them off of Orfeo’s hands_?” I raised a brow. Jaq laughed at this, and certainly for good reason; on occasion did Orfeo really dare to make an effort to hide his fresh treasures, like a crow that found the first shiny gem of the day and dared attack every single predator (most notably, me) away from his nest.

He tolerated my presence more, with the usual snarky scoff and huff whenever he got too boorish. Maduka was merely the silent spectator of this, saying nothing and remaining mute as ever while Pierre smiled nervously and reassured me my reward would be granted no matter the cost each time I paid visit.

**Why is it….**

“_Maybe he won’t glare as hard at you today_?”

**That you keep going back?**

I rolled my eyes, “_You’re too hopeful_.”

“_There’s nothing wrong with that_,” Jaq nudged me, and led the way to the café.

The shop had risen in its popularity to achieve a significant amount of growth (and one of the ones that survived the city’s purge). The empty tables were plagued and infested with customers, the clinging of utensils on plates sounding off when Pierre and Orfeo collected what remained of the purchases. Maduka remained out of sight, producing as much treats as he could do to satisfy the demand that his daughter, Oya faced at the counter with Gisele who ran the main orders. It wasn’t a surprise; it had three reliable owners taking care of it with such efficiency and grace. This didn’t stop until the late afternoon, then again the shop would open early morning to repeat.

Today the business was walkable inside, watching the last customers of the rush hour walk past. I paced to the nearest table by the furthest wall, taking a seat while Jaq scurried to the counter, waving his arms frantically to greet a patient Maduka and a semi-glaring Orfeo who already knew I was in the room. Pierre was gone for the day, seeing him walk out on an errand with Gisele when I stopped by earlier.

“_We’re baaack_~” Jaq beamed, and set the money down to push it toward the two men. “_We got extra too, from that one family near the river_.”

Orfeo took the money in tow, counting deliberately slow with a hum, "_Seems they were pleased with the last bread then. Good work_."

Jacques rested his forearms on the counter, taking a glance out the window, "_It's been a while since Henri has bothered us...do you think he's gotten scared_?"

Orfeo pocketed the pay, unyielding to break his targeted gaze away from me, "_I don't know, think you've struck fear into his very soul by your mere looks_?"

“I believe I’ve done the job, unless he’s planning for something big,” I replied, resting my chin in my hand giving a shoulder-shrug.

"Him, planning?" Orfeo scoffed while Maduka gave a patient stare, counting the seconds until we started the next argument for today, "I hardly doubt it. He's always schemes upon schemes; he'd never do something drastic."

I gave another nonchalant shrug, pushed myself out of the seat and strode myself over to stand before the counter, “If you say so. My bread?” I held out my hand, beckoning with my fingers to him purposely. He scoffed at this, almost mechanically lurching his hand to the displayed pieces beside him.

"You need to learn manners or something,” he said while tossing a loaf of bread blindly into the air. I stared at it, watching it with everyone else as it softly thudded against the wooden counter.

“………I’m not eating that one.” I beckoned with one finger this time, my palm still cupped open.

Orfeo didn’t let his glare waver, "It's brand new. Take it or leave it.”

“…..” I blinked simply, then stepped to stand in front of Maduka this time, and pointed politely, “May I have that one, please?”

Orfeo’s malicious stare evolved to a new level while Maduka bent forward with a blank look, clutching the piece I requested. He offered a nonverbal glance to Orfeo, but with a look of 'it's none of my business' did he reward me. Orfeo scoffed loudly, snatching the one from the counter in retaliation.

I moved myself to stand right in front of Orfeo purposely…..and took a slow bite out of my given piece, “…..MMMMMMMM….”

"...........Why don't you fucking get a room." Orfeo blanched with rolling eyes, aggressively taking a bite from his rejected piece as he stepped away. Jacques opened his mouth to say something, but closed it on bequest of Maduka shaking his head.

I chuckled briefly at the immortal’s reaction, striding myself over to the same table again. Jaq followed me with a kick in his step.

“_Say, can I ask you something_?”

“_What’s that_?” I asked, resting a hand on the table, leaning my balance against it.

“_How come you’re always wearing a hood_?” Jaq mashed his hands against his bangs, pushing it downward purposely to mask his eyes away. “_I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with it off._”

I hummed a bit, straightening myself up a bit of the mention, “_You haven’t_.” I confirmed.

"_Do you keep your identity safe on purpose_??" Jaq inquired.

I thumbed at the table, “……_Something like that_.” I sat down at this, and he gladly seated himself across, silently inquiring. I refused to give him the truth, “_Not a lot of people…..look like me, that’s all_.”

"_Like Maduka and Oya_?" Jacques probed, tilting his head back, "_Though I've been to Africa once...there's lots of people that look like them...maybe you're from somewhere farther from the sounds of it_."

“Hmm….” I rested my chin in my hand, drumming my nail against my cheekbone. “_How was Africa_?_ Why did you go_?”

"_Oh, my mother met with someone...I don't remember what. I think she said it was a business meeting_? _But she kept getting stopped a lot of times, kept saying she was going to go meet with my father_." A 'pfft' drawled from him, "_I think she was just lying to get them off her back. My father's been dead for a while now_."

Oh. This was new.

“_It’s just you and your mother then_?” I probed, filling in my mental encyclopedia.

"_Mhmmmmmm_." Jaq stretched his arms out against the table, "_My grandpa was a business merchant and when he died, she inherited most of his wealth and sold the business to provide for us_."

Explains the café then, and why she invested in it. Hmmm….

_“If we don’t do something soon, we’ll go under Charlotte.”_

**Fox.**

"_Makes sense_,” I nodded. “_Sounds like…she’s a good mother_.”

"_I think so, I know she tries so I try to behave for her sake_.” He grumbled at this, and slumped his face on the table, “_What were your parents like, Elysia_?” Before I could answer (not that I was….too keen on sharing, he persisted), “_Are you a parent? Do you have kids? I don’t know if I want to have kids someday. I don’t think Orfeo ever had parents_.”

“What the fu-“

“_What makes you say that_?” I questioned quite loudly, earning Orfeo’s attention purposely from the farthest side of the café.

“_I think he came out of an egg_,” Jaq responded, and chuckled despite the threatening man heading his way over.

“What are you laughing at?” Orfeo averted his gaze to me, where I tried to conceal an amused grin underneath my relaxed hand.

“_Maybe you’re right, Jaq_,” I teased, resting my eyes on Orfeo who challenged my glance. “_I think he’s a cranky, old bird_.”

“_If I’m a cranky old bird, what does that make you_?” Orfeo stared, “_The little old witch riding around on her broom_?”

“Then don’t get on my bad side,” I reached a hand out, and wiggled my fingers in his direction. “Or I’ll hex you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his hands on his lean hips, “I survived this far without getting one, I doubt you’ll be the one that does me in.”

“_I bet Elysia is older than you are, Orfeo_,” Jacques steered his gaze to the baker, grinning. Orfeo didn’t answer, and instead groaned loudly to diffuse his frustration rather than to yell at me as he usually did. And I found it quote funny, to be honest.

And the cycle would begin anew.

However.

Today was different.

The café was empty when I stepped through that door present day, as if the bell I rung called the team to arms. Jaq was the first to greet me as usual, followed by a distressed Pierre and somewhat bothered Maduka being the other two in the store.

“_Hello, Elysia_,” Jaq greeted, a little less cheery than usual with slumped shoulders.

I took a look around, then addressed him, “_Aren’t we delivering a package today_?”

“_Um, about that……nope_,” he dropped his finger. “_We have no food_.”

What.

My eyes narrowed, then I motioned to catch Pierre’s gaze, “Care to explain?”

“Well, you see…” Pierre raked through his greying beard, wearily glancing towards the open doorway, “We normally get our grains around the middle of the month. Normally it’s enough to supply us for the next, but when Maduka and I had gone to retrieve them…err…” He mumbled the later of the sentence, but Maduka stepped forth.

As tall as Orfeo, and I dare say more intimidating to address; Maduka hardly spoke a word, as if he and Orfeo shared this telepathy conversation whenever they looked to one another. I don’t believe he minded my presence, but also must’ve had his doubts and objections if it meant I kept taking food freely. He hooked his white apron around his dark hands, as if the fabric were illuminating against his flesh by the way the light from the window was hitting it.

“_The guards had it confiscated_.” Maduka answered firmly with a subtle accent, his gaze hardening. I listened intently, taking in the words of his sudden reveal, “_They say we had already taken our share of what the government has been rationin_g.” It must be serious if it got him to talk.

“_Which is obviously a lie_.” Jacques frowned, tossing his arm up impatiently, “_Orfeo gets his supply from a local farmer, the rest of the grains that Paris gets are provided by the government. I just don’t understand it_.”

“_Neither do I, my boy. It’s completely outrageous_!” Pierre threw a hand up, “Five times I’ve requested to speak to a superior commander and three times I’ve had a rifle pointed at me instead this entire morning! Is Paris in that dire of a state that the military is moving to steal all the grains?!”

It wasn’t much of an emergency for Mirabeau, apparently. Rumors spread that the days of individual grain deliveries were being taken away in favor of a government-controlled system. Did they finally pull it off months later?

“So, where is Orfeo?”

“And that in itself is another issue…” Pierre sighed.

Oh god, what now.

“He had left about two hours ago when we had returned,” Maduka answered.

Great.

“Completely ignoring me might I add!” The older man pushed his fingers deep in the crevices of his forehead, bemoaning, “Part of me wishes he vanishes forever but the other knows this business will fall apart without him. I don’t know what he expects to do if even I couldn’t get into contact with someone!”

“Knowing him….” I didn’t even finish.

“_Where are you going_??” Jaq questioned, taking a few steps.

“I have an idea where he might be. I’ll get him back,” I responded, holding the door open.

“Alive??” Pierre interjected.

My eyes squinted, and I gave a confused, unsure nod, “……I’ll be back.”

Stephen’s hunches were right most of the time; his lack of French hardly hindered his motivation to finish his work, and when I situated myself in the _Les Invalides_ district of France from the last report of his food shortage findings, the situation of what had arisen in the morning had grown out of proportion.

Orfeo wasn’t the only one whose grains had gone missing, and there was an upset crowd of bakers and entrepreneurs in front of a large, government building. The gates reached to three stories; national guards posted outside with rifles loaded. Within the locked, spacious area were wooden carts and trolleys, woven bags of many sizes being taken within the structure.

“_That’s our food_!”

“_Give us back what’s ours_!”

“_You bloody royalists can’t do this_!”

Someone came to try and tend to the crowd, to announce their method of inspection. Many whom found it outrageously unfair when pointing out to their noble counterparts. Crowds grew in tens and hundreds but in nowhere did I sense those dark tendrils lashing about.

At least…not in the crowd.

My eyes lifted to the building closest to this one, catching the distinct flare of robust darkness hiding at the corner of the rooftop. Spying out from above…just like a damn crow. I scoffed at the coincidence, separating myself from the growing crowd and to an abandon alleyway. I went to work, grabbling myself onto an opening to climb up the wall. It didn’t take long for me to join at the kneeling baker’s side, slapping at the backside of his head.

Nothing pleased me more to hear his angered hiss in reaction.

“What the fuck was that for?” he snapped.

“What are you doing here?” I deflected.

“Why are **_you_** here?”

“To save **your **ass from doing something reckless,” I retorted.

He mocked at that, “What could I do so recklessly from a rooftop?” He rolled his stare away, looking back at the inaccessible structure across the street. 

“I’m not going to wait to find out,” I stated, “You may play dumb with your café squad, but I know what you’re capable of.” He said nothing.

Orfeo shifted his weight to lean more to the side, overlooking the courtyard, “Then be of some use then, _assassin.” _

I inhaled.

**There it is.**

Orfeo pointed towards the gathered carts, distracting me, “There’s been fifteen-minute rotations between guards to keep an eye on the grains. An official keeps checking it…and I have a feeling they’re going to move these grains out and away from here once they get the crowd in control.”

“They are, you’re not wrong,” I mentioned, kneeling myself at his left.

My firm answer secured his curiosity, “How do you know that?”

I stood up at this, sighing from the sudden revelation of our recent discoveries a year before, “The hoarding of grains has been in hidden practice, and we were trying to figure out why. I was keeping record of it with my team, but we were abruptly pulled from continuing the search. It’s my guess that the practice continued without our surveillance, and now here we are seeing the result.”

“But to make it so publicly with the national guards?” Orfeo rebutted, his dark orbs skimming before falling to my gold, “Even I think it’s fishy if they were trying to remain so ‘low-profile’.”

“It’s not low-profile if it wants to send a message,” I walked a bit to inspect the courtyard’s side and front, analyzing the footwork of the guards, then spotted the opening to head inside. A series of second story windows with the curtains sweeping with the soft breeze, having been opened by servants as they hit and smacked the small rugs and several shirts of the occupants clean. “You stay here, I’ll go get your grains.”

“You really think you can handle going in there by yourself without risking getting caught?”

Of course he would raise objection.

I side-stepped when I stood, giving Orfeo a blank stare, “…Did you….want to tag along?” He followed suite, standing tall with me as he looked at the scene again, meticulously.

He sounded…surprised; the dark nectar around his shoulders and hips were pacified of my response, “…I want my grains in one piece.” He avoided giving me a straight answer.

“Then don’t get us caught,” I swung my body about, gripping onto the edge as I directed my face so the light of the setting sun seeped to reveal my face clearly, “And try to keep up.”

“….Fine.”

We had agreed to wait until dusk the next hour.

The mob still remained, a disturbance to use for our leverage as the guards grew increasingly bothered of their unceasing attendance. The lights of the district casted great shadows among the building’s sides, giving cover to the few windows that remained undisturbed from the afternoon cleaning. Orfeo and I were at the ground level, and absconded to the side. The patrol about made their rounds, thorough and precise.

“Can you climb a wall?” I asked.

Orfeo took a good look, quirking his mouth before shaking his head slightly, “Not these walls.”

“The doors are guarded; I’ll have to make an entry for you. Can you wait until then?”

“Fine with me,” he compromised.

A sprint across, I made the speedy climb, kicking myself up to the second floor. With one haul over the well-dusted windowsill, I was inside an office, hearing the sound of shuffling in the next room when the blinds flapped to a rest at my sides. A servant mumbled to himself, putting away the towels in one of the master bedrooms. He gripped the next fabric to fold, but it dropped out of his hands from his flailing arms. Soon his body lay unconscious on the ground, his chest breathing easily from the traumatic ordeal of my chokehold.

I continued through the rooms, angling my slender body against the sides and back of the decorative couches and dressers to avoid any confrontation, and let those who walked out freely to their business. Those that didn’t, or ventured too close for comfort met the same sleeping fate as the first victim until I finally made myself to the rounding staircase leading down to the first floor. The fat columns of marble made it easy to hide, but the open hallways would prove tricky with hardly any thick furniture laying about.

“_Be sure to check the loads; we’ll be departing within thirty minutes_.”

“_Alright then. You three, with me so we can get everything ready_. _The Commander will be here shortly._”

The steps subsided, and I sidestepped down the pearl stairs, jerking my head to and fro to inspect the grand hall. I eyed the right side of the numerous doors, trying to gauge Orfeo’s location from outside, and the nearest room that would be to his reach without alarming the patrols outside. I chose a room, and pressed my ear against it to make out the number of feet padding around.

One, two, three, four five bodies inside.

Perfect- and I jerked the door open, closing it behind me.

“Hey!” the first guard bellowed-

_Click_, as I locked the door.

“Intrud-“ I gripped the lunging lance, and flipped the entire guard over, making him drop to the ground harshly with his own weight. The second rushed with sword in hand, but I met his blade with the stolen lance, sending a low kick to his knee before banging the wooden neck against his temple. He fell automatically from the unmerciful blow-

“Argh!” the third soldier readied his grip with his own spear, but it was short-lived; I dug the spiked iron against the decorative loop at the spear’s neck, ramming the two weapons against the polished, wooden desk. One soldier aimed to clutch my neck, but I swiftly ducked, and tripped the man against his comrade. The last standing man sidestepped to avoid the collision, and instead aimed his pistol to the ceiling, reading to fire it to alarm the entire building-

“AHH-“ he hissed at the assailing dagger knocking the gun out of his palm. I rushed, and my formed fist met his face directly to deliver the crushing punch. He wobbled before falling back, the five bodies surrounding the rug with documents and used quills scattered among the red rug with the assortment of dropped weapons. 

I placed one of the unconscious guards near the door, making sure it remained unmoved with his weight. Next, I went to the nearby window and unlatched it. I peeked through the cream curtain, ducking my head back to avoid the glance of a walking patrol of three. Once out of sight did I pull back the curtain, and made myself viewable to Orfeo. I let out a low whistle.

He awaited until the coast was clear, and dashed himself easily through the night. Once he reached the windowsill did he leap himself inside, letting me close the frame and tug the blinds properly in place again. He fixed his blouse in place, having rid of his chef coat for the time being.

“Looks like you had fun in here,” he inspected the room of fallen guards, all still breathing with half of them leaking a bloody nose.

“The grains are moving soon,” I informed.

“Then it’s best to steal and don on a uniform.” He motioned over to the fallen guard closest, picking the front of his uniform and checked it side to side,

“The back gate will be heavily guarded,” I kept watchful of the door, pressing my ear to it as the other was bombarded with the sounds of unclicking and unbuckling metal.

“What’s the plan then?” 

From the corner of my eye I could see that Orfeo had no shame getting undressed. His arms pulled over the saggy, overused blouse, revealing his tan, built skin to the candlelight of the room. He adorned markings on his flesh, tattoos of various degrees and sizes and mere glimpses from how fast he dressed. His right arm displayed a human skull, marked with lines and symbols I was unfamiliar with, and on the same right shoulder was a dark bird, smooth as if the design had been made in coal and ash itself. His eyes averted to my direction, and I easily moved my glance naturally to avoid a confrontation of my prying.

“Isn’t it simple? We go out the front gate.”

“You’re joking.”

“Don’t forget the atrocious hat,” I reminded.

“Something we can both agree on,” he tugged it on, making sure most of his wavy locks were hidden from view. He equipped the guard’s sword, adjusting the hilt to secure it.

“Sure you can handle that?” I eyed it, then stared up to see him leaning slightly, the edge of the hat touching base with the lining of my cowl as the midnight silks of his being fluxed around my face.

“I’m well trained,” he replied, amused of my stare.

“Riiight.” I gripped the scruff of the resting guard, merely dropping him to the side as a groan escaped from his muffled lips. Next, I peeked my head out to watch the lobby. Once it was clear did I open the door all the way, letting Orfeo out. I closed the door, sabotaging the door handle and clanking it off to prevent entry. “I need to head to the third floor. There’s a balcony ridge having a good look over the cart.”

“And my part?” Orfeo asked, plastering the hat down to rest on his forehead.

“You’re going to drive the supply; there’s no doubt in my mind we’ll be swarmed if we both head to it suspiciously. With your disguise and a good lie, I’m sure you can figure something out,” I walked ahead.

“_Finally we arrived_!”

Suddenly did the backdoors of the building jerked open, my body instantly moving to press myself against the wall. Orfeo…was quite clever. His hard back met my front, pressing me firmly against one of the curtains, his taller stature easily able to cover me well from distant view. He nodded briskly to the arriving foreman of the building that abruptly was making his way over.

Shit.

“_At ease_,” the bedizen Commander replied with his two guards who paid mind elsewhere. “_What is the status of the stock_?_ Are we ready to move_?”

"_Moving the last bag as we speak, monsieur. In about five minutes we'll be ready to transport to its intended location_," Orfeo answered clearly.

The corrupt elixir around Orfeo’s body secreted into my nose, and it was almost impossible to ignore its reaction from being _so_ close for the first time. The murky cobwebs were almost touchable, tickling the edge of my nose and cheeks to feel it slither along my flesh…..testing. It smelled a lot like…the sodden pavement after a storming morning. My Twilight grew heated of the invasion, its roused nature making my arms and legs tingle, coaxing…..something from this close encounter. God, he needed to move-

“_Good news then, how much more wretched can this night go_??” the churlish man sighed, holding his temple with a hand. I rested my hand against his back, trying not to dig my nails into the coat. “_Go see to it then, and be quick about it. I cannot have any more mishaps than I already have_...” he muttered, and moved himself and his guards down the path in the opposite direction.

Yet, Orfeo didn’t move automatically, and I felt my eyes flicker from his overwhelming aura damning my sense of time. It was until I heard a distant door close that Orfeo finally moved, letting me walk a bit away to get my bearings. He must’ve noticed my reaction from how quiet I had gotten.

“You alright?” 

My nose wriggled, and I faced him properly, “Well played. Color me...slightly impressed.”

"I wonder what lengths it'd actually take to impress you then." He turned, and out of nowhere…he poked my head. My chest……held. "Come on, you don’t have long before I have to bullshit my way out of here."

**Pay attention.**

“Then let’s make this quick,” I cleared my throat.

We separated swiftly; Orfeo awaited as I silently made my way up the staircase, avoiding the patrols as much as I could. When they remained unconsciously incompliant did I ease myself over to their proximity, rendering them useless in the vacant rooms I ran across. Another flight of stairs, I prowled with target at hand, staring at the two guards walking up and down the aisle until they both decided to look outside the east balcony overlooking the courtyard. I snuck right behind, grabbing the first man who decided to turn first-

His muffled protest against my clamping hand hardly made a sound the minute my free hand jabbed right at his temple with force. His limbs slumped in grasp, and I let his body drop to grab the second guard’s attention-

“Haah!” his exhale escaped him as I flipped him over my shoulder, smashing my heel against his chest. He gurgled in protest, then jerked unconsciously from the kick to his head. 

Without further delay I stepped myself out into the cold night, my body bending away from view. I peeked through the open gaps of the stone pillars that served as the railing, catching Orfeo by the wagon as he was accompanied by a couple more guards that were making the last preparations for the last bags.

"_Hurry up men, the Commander is expecting us to settle this affair and head out, now_,” Orfeo commanded with such ease, as if he had done this before.

"_Where's Francois? He wasn't supposed to leave his shift for another hour_..."

"_Getting an earful from said Commander for running behind schedule. This is a priority so I expect you to get it done quick before **Francois** comes back to give you an earful_." Or he was naturally grumpy. Give or take.

I faced the side wall, and propped my foot against the stone; with a leap did I grip onto the roof’s ledge, and hauled myself up to blend in with the sky. Within the roof’s shadows did I step along the stone tiles, making sure not produce any noise. Once I moved myself to the main balcony did I pause in my step, analyzing the organized bodies, keeping focus on Orfeo and the gated doors ahead on the ground floor.

Any second now….

“_Make way_!” The Commander that had confronted Orfeo before walked himself to the open, escorted by the same guards and then an entire, elite squad.

“_Ready the haul and stand your positions_!” one man interjected. “_Open the gates_!”

The mob outside roared in retaliation when they realized the movement, but they remained a safe distance away from the perimeter that was sanctioned off; the armed guards steadied their rifles, keeping the rioters at bay.

“_Make sure none follow the load_!” The mob grew unsteady, and louder at that.

I leapt down to the center balcony, then aligned my balance to the edge of the railing. The horses were ready, and I saw Orfeo slow his pace, his arms carrying the last bag of grain as most of the guards moved away.

I shielded my mouth with a gloved palm, and let the low, chirping whistle ring out.

The sole guard that headed to drive the cart turned at the sound, easily meeting his fate; Orfeo hurled the sack onto his head. He fell heavier onto the ground then what spilled onto the floor, the disguised baker landing a solid kick to his chest for good measures. Fluidly with a swift stride, he took the open seat of the carriage when the Commander rounded the other side. It didn't take long for a confrontation to commence.

"_You--you're not suppose to be driving_\--"

"_Now I am_." Orfeo took the reins in his hands, " _Arrivederci capitano_!"

I landed straight down, rattling the back of the haul from my unforeseen landing. The Commander swooped out his blade, and pointed it to the overridden carriage to alert the confused sentries around. “_THIEVES_!” Tucked between my fingers were three orbs, and when the rifles pointed, I snapped them down to release the white, hot flares to blind every able body.

“Go!” I ordered. Orfeo snapped the reins with no mercy and the crowds instantly scattered at the sound of gunfire expelling.

“_They’re escaping_!” The guards ahead cried out from the spare daggers striking against their weapons, rifles dropping at the wagon’s rolling spindles. The throngs of civilians flung themselves out of the way, the carriage swerving from the harsh pull of the stallions. I hurried my way to the front seat, hearing the protesting sounds of the royals, but none following our way.

I gripped onto the custom railing of the passenger seat, finding myself slightly grinning of how smooth that had actually gone "I'm...a little more impressed now."

Orfeo offered a brief gaze before focusing back on the road, a smirk playing at his lips, "Only a little more? I'm starting to wonder if your expectations range from stealing directly from King Louis himself."

“We’ll see what happens when you actually do it then,” I replied back, looking ahead along with him, “Know where we’re going?”

"I have an idea."

We arrived at the heart of Paris’ Marketplace where a few stranglers departed. Orfeo and I made quick work to open the man-made carriage, though the immortal had other plans in mind. He drew the last bags from the cart and into the stands that remained, wiping his hands clean against his stolen coat. With the newly acquired sword, he drew to the front of the carriage and struck the metal latches that held the horses together. I followed his lead, gripping them by the reins to bring them to the load Orfeo separated from the rest.

Orfeo returned the sword to its sheathe, rolling up his sleeves as I kept the horses steady, "Now to take what is rightfully mine...and then some."

“I suspected nothing less.”

We seized as much bags as we could and settled them on the saddles of the animals. With careful and ducking maneuvering to avoid any alarmed guards and main streets, we managed to arrive at the closed café sometime later with no danger awaiting us, nor any hint of trail behind us. We set the horses free once we put every obtained reward inside, instantly doubling the café’s produce for the next couple of months.

Alone and undisturbed, I followed Orfeo’s lead to load the grain behind the counter and into the storeroom I had once been forbidden to enter in.

It reminded me a lot of the shop at Charlotte’s except this café’s cook-room was exceptionally small compared to the one I was used to walking through. Everything was already prepped, despite none of them unknowing of what the morning would bring. At the corner of the room we placed the harvest, Orfeo taking them off my hands when he wanted to organize them in a certain way. I let him, and at last the final bag was brought in, my own sleeves rolled up to release the heat building up around my neck.

“That should do it,” Orfeo clapped his hands clean, and unbuttoned his acquired uniform. “I can finally be rid of Pierre’s complaining.”

“He was pretty worried this morning,” I replied, watching Orfeo’s usual demeanor of exasperation….drop, a simple nod eluding him instead.

“I know….”

I moved myself from the room, watching Orfeo walk behind, and lock the kitchen before turning to look at me, “Say….You mentioned earlier that you were investigating into this.”

I blinked, “Yes, I did.” Probably something I shouldn’t disclose….but what was the harm in telling Orfeo.

“Isn’t your Creed supposed to be out and helping people….what is it…working in the shadows to serve the light and what not?”

I exhaled, and whatever answer I had been prepared to give him evaporated from my tongue. I could taste the steam of the words along the roof of my mouth, making me shiver uncomfortably of how nonchalant he had said that, and how loud it rung in my ears.

“Suppose that’s what happens after a few hundred years. Personal interests over-weighs the public's, no matter the organization,” he decided to fill in the blank for me, resting his shoulder against the stone wall, looking at me as the moonlight cast him in shadow. I could only see the small glimmer of his eyes, but even then that wasn’t much to look at.

“Are you surprised?” I lifted my gaze to him, no hint of sarcasm nor berating nature. More like…slight exhaustion, “That’s what humans do; its human nature to be selfish.”

“It’s every one’s nature; don’t try to flatter yourself out of it,” he quipped readily.

“I wasn’t,” I gave a hard look, and the bags under my eyes grew dense.

“….Forget that I tried running a joke to you.” Orfeo drawled, waving a hand briskly to draw my attention anew (and to avoid any further interrogation on the matter), “_Anyways_, I have my grains back and I’ll be able to get to work later because of it…so thanks.”

I tilted my head at this, “….That might be the first time you’ve ever thanked me. I imagine that doesn’t happen often?”

Again, he was ready, and the way his eyes slid over to catch me- “To you specifically, it’ll be the first.”

“Took you a couple of months to admit it. After all my hard work,” I rested my hand on my hip at this. I weighed my options, but I pressed lightly, “Making sure you don’t kill anyone else. It’s a tough job, you know.”

I’ve never seen Orfeo look so….the way his eyes slooooowly rolled over to me, as if the very thing I said were so outlandish, against the law even. The corner of his mouth doing its best to not quirk up, dissatisfied of my subtle wording. Feeling so wronged, yet so called-out as Stephen has mentioned. Yet, he resisted….he resisted some form of happy emotion, battled it like his life depended on it.

“I can make jokes too,” I humored.

“_Oh_. I can tell,” he exasperated with a long exhale, completely done with my existence for the day it seemed. This really wasn’t the usual result of our banters. This was… a different result.

“I think I deserve a treat for that. It’s only fair.”

“Don’t you get sick and tired of bread?” he stationed his hand on the counter at this, dropping his head so that his black waves swam downward, like a small waterfall. His hair had also gotten longer, but he maintained it. When he jerked his head up, the shadow of his beard flickered white from the moon’s veil.

“If I did, I would’ve stopped coming by the first month,” I openly replied. “I’ve also kept my word.”

But what started out as a joke….

“Which was?” he arched a brow, one finger drumming on the wood.

Was turning into something else.

“To only get your bread. I haven’t forgotten.”

“…Why haven’t you?” 

**FOX.**

And something happened.

I hesitated.

For. A. Long. Time.

Anything beyond a minute was long, and when it reached the one minute and thirty mark, even Orfeo moved himself, and that alone shifted my focus to look at him. The air pulsed, and a white flash hit my eyes to subtly paint the scene a soft yellow to revisit-

_“So you’re saying I should just get your bread?”_

I swallowed.

_"Wouldn't you want more after what you had?" _

What the hell-

“I don’t know-“ I **fucking **blushed. The minimalist effort, but it was there, grazing my cheeks. Oh.

Oh no.

Orfeo went quiet at this, studying my face whilst he held one of suspicion; I dared not move. He curled his hand into the hem of his pants, the white of his knuckles popping out of my focus range. He stood still, his dark spheres observing my every movement for something, anything that he could use against me. When I presented nothing, his posture straightened and remained rigid. He couldn’t see it, right? It was…too dark in here-

“Should be careful.”

I stared.

My chest tight.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Something might disappoint then.”

At this did his body tense, his shoulders subtly rigid as the moonlight from outside brushed along his half-visible face, and ran down the front of his half-buttoned, stolen uniform. There, his darkness rested, pooling up to hang loosely around his neck like beads. The threads intermingled and intertwined along the muscles of his lower arms, and further into his sides where the magic receded. The vines no longer held intense focus, softly seeping at his feet.

Stretching and coiling, snaking around my ankles-

“I have to go,” I cut in.

Almost as if this had happened before.

“Don’t you want your bread, after all that?” he questioned. The air thick.

I thought for a moment, and then, “….Tomorrow.”

**You know what you have to do, Fox.**

He blinked, and I literally heard his throat lurch from how hard he swallowed, “…Tomorrow then.”

**Or it’s going to happen again.**

I made myself to the door-

**You fool.**

God, what the fuck.

What the fuck.

FUCK.

I ran.

I took the most difficult way to get back to the café, to relieve…whatever it was that had grappled me before.

My chest was no longer tight…but the feeling seeped, making me remembering what it felt like. When I touched the ground floor, the cold air did nothing to relieve me. I reached into my hood and pulled the scarf. My hood fell, and the red curls danced in the night. The lantern beside was blinding in full view and when I looked down to stare at the red fabric in my hand-

_“Yes, I trust you, A-”_

“No, no no NO. Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP-“ I rolled the fabric in hand, and my first instinct was to rip it- something compelled me not to- I went to bang it against the stone railing, overlooking the river. I pounded it repeatedly, wanting it to remember, be etched with my infernal wrath.

_SLAM._

_“Would you feel something if I left-“_

_SLAM_

_“I was wondering if you'd want to come with me?"_

_SLAM._

“SHUT UP SHUT UP, FUCK! FUCK!!! SHUT UP, STOP STOP STOP!”

Until finally-

** _CRUNCH._ **

My body shuddered, and the pale discoloration of the sun’s ghost stung into my flesh. I looked down, seeing the fabric merely dusted from the crumbled gravel at my feet. My hands were slashed, the blood mixing with the scarf that it was hard to tell what was what. I focused on it, and the sickening feeling of before somewhat vanished, distracting my mind elsewhere. Away from the burning in my eyes, the shuddering of my mouth-

What was….happening to me?

I fussed with it, debated heavily….but thought best to stuff the memoir in my pouch away from view where I couldn’t see it. With no cover did I accept the cold breeze, and tugged my hood to hide myself away from view again. I rested my front against the beaten part of rock, yanking my cowl, to feel it burn against my head……until….

**We’ll never leave you alone ever again.**

I was not far from my destination-

“Elysia!”

I sidestepped, avoiding to collide with- gods, why was Arno Dorian here?

Adorned in his navy-cloak attire, a red scarf of his own tucked neatly within the confinements of his blouse, and two-set vests that hid his array of weapons well. His gloved fingers wiggled briefly to answer, a cocky grin displayed proudly across his neatly shaven face. He pulled back his hood, revealing himself to me in full, his hair having gotten a bit longer since weeks ago when I had seen him.

“Ahh, there you are~” he grinned, aiming a….as Stephen has called it, a finger-gun toward my direction. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“What are you doing here, boy?” I pointed a finger quickly, though dropped it before Arno could catch the dried, smeared blood.

“Beylier sent me for you, though I’m not entirely sure why,” he admitted, and tilted his head. “….Are you okay?”

I narrowed my eyes, “Beylier? Beylier sent you?” I ignored him.

“….Mhmm,” he nodded, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand, “Said it was urgent.” At this time? They hardly needed me at night….

My eyes tightened, “Did he give a reason why?”

“He said he would like to talk to you personally.”

….Fucking hell.

I crossed my way….and found Arno following. “Why are you coming?”

“It was to ensure your arrival.” I gave an incredulous look. “I’m not the one who made the rules. I’m merely the messenger,” he held up his hand in honor.

Of course not.

When we had made it to the looming entrance, I didn’t like this feeling brewing in my stomach. I didn’t like how I was feeling at all tonight. I was not…myself.

A few assassins remained, but not enough to raise question as they nattered and strode casually in and out of the Library section.

“Elysia.” Beylier’s voice was distinguishable, but it wasn’t hard to find him awaiting at the bottom step of the spiraling staircase, a cup of freshly-brewed tea in his grasp, “And I see Arno is here as well. Perfect.”

“What’s this about?” I crossed my arms, but Beylier was already moving, walking up the carpeted steps with a firm pace.

“If you follow me, please.”

We kept in tow, the dark-skinned assassin leading to the double arcades that formed the front of the main apse of the upper floor. Enough candle were lit to paint the room with light, a dark hue of purple seeping along the shadowed shelves and furniture. In front of the arranged tabled with the other mentors; Mirabeau kept himself at the center, with Quemar on his left, and Sophie on his right. Bellac was also there, though he moved himself to the side wall, shrouded in mystery with his face away from view. Finally upon arrival did Beylier join Sophie’s side, and set his tea cup down on his desk.

What was going on?

My eyes searched every face, unsure of what this meant, but I didn’t like the silence that followed after the clinking of Beylier’s porcelain. Mirabeau smiled softly, and I already didn’t like how easily his eyes glided between Arno and me.

“Master Elysia, I do apologize for this short notice, but it appears we are in need of your presence for this important matter,” he started, resting his hands behind his back.

“I’m here…elaborate,” I tried not to push, but the anxiety was getting the best of me. Silence, and only the sound of Bellac’s grumbling frolicked, and the arising hum coming from my side.

Arno bowed his head downwards, then jerked himself up, “Weeeeeell, I see my job is done here, so I shall-“

Quemar didn’t hold back, “This concerns you too, Arno.”

“Huh?”

I was growing frustrated.

Bellac exhaled, and stood on Arno’s other side to center him between us, “This is ridiculous. It’s unnecessary-“

“What is this?” I questioned rigidly.

“It is a unanimous decision that we, as a Creed bestow a great task to you, Elysia,” Mirabeau lifted his hand to conciliate Bellac-

“This is a bloody joke,” but failed as the bombast assassin leered his view away, his arms crossed tightly on his broad chest. The unnerving stillness grappled us all, and my body shuddered from how bizarrely quiet everyone had gotten, nevertheless still keeping their eyes toward the three of us.

“I would like to know then,” I tried again. Mirabeau accepted my calmer tone.

“Master Elysia, we have all juried and contested this for a good few hours, and it is a decision that was not taken lightly.” Mirabeau began, and navigated his look to Arno with a stern look, “Arno Dorian has shown impeccable and admirable talent in his training, and we are indeed fortunate to bring him into the folds of our union. However, we have arrived to the same conclusion…it is not a simple one.”

I exchanged my glance between Arno and Bellac, Arno just as confused as myself.

“I’m listening,” I continued, befuddled.

“We ask for this long-term favor, taking into account with your own civic duties, and your own team to abide by,” Mirabeau reestablished, and cleared his throat for the next sentence. “Master Elysia, we hereby disclose this: as a Master, you will partake in a joint custody of Arno Dorian with Master Bellac.”

……………………

“I’m…..sorry, I must’ve misheard you-“ I cut in.

“Excuse me??” Arno was next.

“Like I said there’s no need to-“ Bellac tried to weigh in.

“We are aware of the complications of this, and believe us we have discussed this thoroughly and rigorously to this conclusion. Master Bellac was briefed in this already,” Beylier snatched the conversation.

“That may be so but I wasn’t!” I deployed my shock, taking a step to rebalance myself. “Is this a crude joke??”

“Do you doubt your abilities for this?” Beylier challenged me.

“What I doubt is the decision itself!” I whirled my head to Bellac, “And you agreed to this?!?”

“Not really an agreement, but if you want to put it that way-“ a severe sliver of sarcasm rung in his chords.

“The decision is final,” Mirabeau contested, silencing us. “Master Elysia, you will share mentor responsibilities with Master Bellac in serving Arno Dorian, effective immediately. If you wish to know more, or have the details elaborated, there will be time for that tomorrow morning with Master Beylier. Your team of assassins are well equipped to handle their own; Clement is fairly new, but we trust he will be no hassle under Stephen and James when you are absent.”

What the hell is THIS.

“And if I refuse?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.

Quemar was ready for this, and tapped his cane once to the ground to draw my attention to him, “Then we question whether you are adequate enough to handle a team to begin with.”

_“Do you believe Mirabeau will side with you, Elysia?”_

Were….were they threatening to take away everyone else??

What the fuck!?

“You _can’t_ be serious,” I averted my glare, but none drew back, “You’re **not **serious.”

“Master Elysia,” Sophie began, and I watched her mentally fumble with her words. “We entrust you with this. We know you will do well.”

Oh my god, no-

“Arno Dorian, do you understand your position in all this?”

“……..Do I have a choice?”

What the fuck.

“Master Bellac, do you understand the rules and roles of this agreement?”

“……..I do.”

What the fuck was happening??!

“Master Elysia, do you understand the newly acquired role of your new position?”

“………………………………………….”

“Master Elysia? Your answer?”

FUCK.

“Yes.”

“Meeting adjourned.”


	8. Misplaced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was more than 40 pagesffffffffffffffffmeeeeeeeeee
> 
> Thanks to my co-writers for helping me out and keeping me sane as I busted my eyes for this. Also thanks for the reads/kudos, much appreciated! Hopefully you end up liking this one :,DD We finally welcome Arno into the fray. There's typos in this (I can feel em damn it) so I'll fix em later.
> 
> Until next month, take care!
> 
> -Keys

How long had it been?

When everything happened?

When was the last time I had ever…?

And yet-

**You know what you did.**

_SLAM._

The rattling iron bars of the gate steamed firmly in the spacious corridor; the vibrations ghosted on my palm when I had clutched it firmly so. The few assassins jerked away when I had intercepted five feet within their vicinity, aware and alert. I ignored them and climbed to the top floor to where the Intelligence Room was stationed, with hardly any sleep and no coffee to sustain me.

I strode myself assertively up the few steps framed by the marble columns, though I evaded the collision against Quemar who seemed rather well-rested and pleased this cold morning. His cane dug into the carpet, steading his booted heel to turn to me. The ruffles on his blouse protruded through his buttoned coat, making him appear bigger than he actually was.

He smiled, and bowed his head to expose the graying strands in his dark, pressed locks, “Good morning, Elysia. You’re here quite early.”

Of course he was in a good mood; Arno Dorian wasn’t his problem.

It was inviting to tell him everything that was on my mind; it certainly would make things interesting and soothe the hurricane inside my body for maybe five minutes. But to what point if it would only amuse the long-term assassin.

“I’m always here at this time of day,” I corrected him.

“Hmm…I never noticed,” he teased.

I tapered my eyes.

He took notice, “I jest.”

“Obviously.” But what problems I had with Quemar….were a little different than anyone else’s.

Quemar gave a last smile to hide that very fact, “Beylier is downstairs, in a spare room if you’re looking for him.” And he strolled past, letting his cane support his full weight when he reached the wooden, laminated floor. I watched, and when he was halfway down the somewhat abandoned corridor, he too shared a good morning to a rushing figure who ignored him completely.

“Good morning, Bellac,” the elder hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t wait for a response. Focus now shifted to the arriving, black-haired assassin who in turn made his way to stand beside me to investigate within the Intelligence Room’s confinements. He was left unimpressed with the mere sight of three figures sharpening swords next to the bookshelves, the deserted meeting table on the right, and the occupied, large globe of the world dead center of the quarters.

The puffs under his eyes proved his restlessness, and his set jaw verified his newborn frustration.

“Beylier is not here,” I reminded him.

“Lead the way then,” he conceded. I strode down the dim hallway, and he kept in tow. However, it didn’t take long for him to mention his bothered mindset, his arms swinging to and fro in his determined stride, “Damn council thinks they can do whatever they please. Taking the highroad of an alternative course then to let things play out."

“Is this now where I can ask what the hell happened?” I tried not to plague his name in the issue. Did he do something to make them reconsider? It wasn’t unheard of to have two mentors teaching one recruit. Mostly, a dead mentor would bring that choice to light. However, both Bellac and I were very much alive; this was rare circumstance.

"Damn if I know. They sensed something amiss in the way I was teaching the boy. Or at least _one_ of them thought enough otherwise to seek the counsel’s opinion." Bellac steeled himself on names, a snarl threatening to be unleashed if he continued thinking upon it, "So here we are, in this shit-hole of a situation."

We started our way down the stairs, moving along the spiraling railing of the high-vaulted room.

“You can’t convince me this came out of nowhere.”

“Believe me for once in your goddamn life, Elysia; I had nothing to do with this change.”

We touched base on the last step, and proceeded our way to the vacant rooms.

I shot him a glance, “Any ideas to reverse this?”

“What do you think I was doing last night?” he retorted.

Bellac and I were fluid in our movements, seeking out each quarter we came across. When we both reached the last room, we found a group of students who looked up in confusion…then thumbed immediately to the lonesome body that was hunched over a desk near the orange-dim, back room.

“Collect your things, and get out,” Bellac hissed and motioned his thumb to point backwards. The remaining assassins inside gathered their belongings with no protest and the door closed with a firm thud once they were gone. Bellac and I marched forward across to stand on either side of Beylier who was reading a singular book, a cup of tea steaming within his grasp.

“Ahh…I didn’t hear you come in.” Beylier straightened his back up, his welcoming eyes scanning Bellac’s expression, “And I see Master Bellac is with you. Reminds me of the golden days, how the two of you used to be accompanied by the other.”

This man had some nerve.

"Can it, Beylier. This isn't the time for all that hogwash." Bellac scolded, "Now what the hell was _that_ all about with taking Arno from me?" How many times did he rehearse that last night, I wondered.

“If we’re going to be civil about it-“ Beylier closed his book and signaled to the two empty seats in front of him, “-take a seat.” He was waiting for us.

Like children, Bellac and I sat ourselves, though it wouldn’t surprise me if Bellac also wanted to chuck the table across the room (like how I envisioned it). Instead I kept my composure and waited for Beylier to get himself situated, taking a long sip of his tea and brushing off the droplets off of his mustache. I held onto the edge of the desk to hold myself (and my arising annoyance) at bay while Bellac spread his legs apart, somewhat leaning into Beylier’s space with his arm resting on the table. His drumming fingers and my bouncing heel played out our impatience, but Beylier remained unbothered by it.

“What is it that you would like to know?”

“What the hell were you _thinking_?!” Bellac and I snapped in unison. The dark-skinned man laughed at the comedic timing of it.

“I know you’re a smart man, Beylier-“ I withheld my true tone, “but this is….ridiculously laughable. I brought Arno Dorian to be Bellac’s apprentice; that is what Arno asked, what Bellac wanted, what everyone expected. I want to know the meaning of this.”

Bellac didn’t wait for the answer, and pointed to Beylier’s direction, dare say right at the man’s face, "You think I can't handle a pisspot like him? If this is one of your crummy jokes, Beylier, I'd say you have a _fine _sense of attitude thinking I'd handle an insult thrown to me like this!"

"You say it like there's a hidden implication behind our word." Beylier acknowledged, giving a small sigh, "Know I say this as an observer, not an accuser; in light of recent events, it's become apparent to everyone that the boy's....sense of direction is quite....” He pressed his lips together, tapping the handle of his mug, “….tunnel-visioned if I may say. He's emotional, brash in his actions, perhaps _too _much for even the likes of you to handle, Bellac."

Bellac scoffed loudly at this, throwing his hand up in disbelief, “Example??”

Beylier pursued his lips as if he were dreading to be asked that, “With no insult to your character…” He leaned forward at this, knitting his digits together and resting his hands against his mouth slightly, “The various missions we’ve provided you have ended in particular ways.”

Bellac pressed with a stare.

Beylier conceded with a grim expression, “Dead Templars. _Many_ dead Templars.”

“If the boy wants to kill Templars, let him kill Templars. What’s the wrong in that?” Bellac slapped his hand against his thigh, then motioned it toward Beylier’s general direction, “He’s ready to face the danger, to give everything he has for the Brotherhood’s cause-“

“The Brotherhood’s cause is at a halt because of Mirabeau’s truce with Grand _Master de la Serre_, who need I remind you, Arno is trying to atone for the man’s death.” Beylier rebutted, a hand stayed to halt Bellac in his tracks, “We’ve had little to no ideas what are the Templar’s motives now and the various assignments to handle smugglers, raiders, spies of the sorts—it’s clear that Arno’s frustration is being led to pointless dead end if you’re driving him to nonsense slaughter.”

“Pointless??” Bellac stood at this, and I honestly thought he was going to try to break the wooden barrier centered when he rammed his fist against it. “What’s pointless is that we’re having an argument about this; Arno Dorian is the change we need!”

“Mr. Dorian-”

I narrowed my eyes, exchanging my look between the two.

Bellac’s teeth grinded beneath his lips, forgetting I was even here, “He is MY student!” His eyes turned coal. I didn’t recognize him for one second, and the way his teeth bared like a captured predator-

“Don’t make me say it,” Beylier’s voice dropped, and his head turned slightly sideways in such a way, the light of the candle above us darkened his eyes further. And when Bellac didn’t respond, “You are not his father-“

“I never said I WAS,” Bellac agitatedly replied. Beylier remained unchanged, solid in his form. “If you’re insinuating-“

“Arno needs strictness, a guideline to uphold,” the man countered, pointing his whole entire hand to the assassin beside me. “You give him too much freedom; he must know order _first_.”

"Sounds like Templar talk if you ask me."

Wow.

“I will disregard that entirely,” Beylier didn’t even miss a beat, anticipating this from how harsh he responded.

"Damn pisspot shouldn't be held to a leash either. He needs to be free-thinking man, not another mindless revolutionary on the streets." Bellac argued, "What makes you think Elysia has the capacity to do that?”

Beylier looked at me. Really, looked at me, leveling his hands down so his face was entirely exposed. He didn’t smile nor frown, almost attempting to find the very answer within my cowl.

He looked to Bellac one last time, “You must realize the seriousness of this…” his stare glided, and even the shaggy assassin paused in his rising temper. “It is out of my hands. It is Mirabeau’s word.”

"Mirabeau..." Bellac's lips tightened, "Just what is he planning??"

“The best for the Creed,” Beylier finished, and took the last drink of his tea, “Send Arno Dorian when you see him, so he may be acquainted with his new Mentor. Is there anything else you wish to question-?”

Beylier was rewarded with a scoff, followed with the motion of the semi-flung chair that rattled on its wooden legs. Beylier closed his eyes, already prepared for the slamming door that shut itself closed, leaving the two of us within the shuddering room. Silence burned, and it was unclear where to take this conversation.

I certainly wasn’t expecting it, but it being Bellac? I wasn’t surprised.

“Elysia,” the dark man whispered, as if he suspected that Bellac were pressing his ear right against the door. I had heard him strut angrily down the corridor, long gone. “You must understand this…right?”

“You’re the one who suggested this, weren’t you?” my gold eyes swirled. In it laid the voices, and how they wanted to lather Beylier’s blood across the wall for his careless decision. But…something else within my chest held, and it bothered me, “You might as well tell me the whole truth.”

“May I explain myself, or will you interrupt me every five seconds like Bellac did?”

I exhaled, “………No. Go on.”

He finished his tea, replenishing his dry throat, “Arno Dorian trusts Bellac….to an exceeding degree.” He rubbed his eyes at this, washing away the strong front he had put up with his comrade moments before, “I noticed it first hand; it was wrong in my place to be so secretive, but I followed them and I witnessed Bellac’s nature.”

“I’m listening.”

“He was cruel; the prison life might not have affected him physically, but there I saw it firsthand…the methods and language he used. It’s no secret that Bellac holds a devasting hatred to Templars, and wishes Arno to follow that in the prior months he’s been teaching him.” Before I could ask, Beylier proceeded, “But the boy isn’t a sheep, and he’s held up thus far.”

“The boy refuses to uphold that same nature?”

Beylier nodded, tiredly, “Bellac sees that an obstacle, and is trying to find ways to dismantle that.”

“He doesn’t obey him,” I confirmed. Beylier nodded, solemnly. “You find that a threat?”

“No; it’s more of a concern.”

“Has Arno come up to you personally about this?”

“Do you think someone like Arno Dorian would raise objection?? Against his one and only mentor?”

I searched along the wood lake between us, my brows furrowed, “That depends.”

He pursued, “You’ve dealt with this before already.” I looked up. “With Clement.”

“….No, someone like Dorian wouldn’t.” I sighed, averting my gaze to the side, “….How are you so sure the boy will listen to me?”

Beylier scoffed a bit at this, and a small grin exposed along his face when I tilted my headed at him, perplexed, “Are you teasing me?”

I scoffed, confused, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“_Elysia_,” Beylier rested the sides of his palms on the desk, revealing the light cream of skin inside his palms, “I trust no one but you to handle this; you are the only one to combat against Bellac, and in due time he will accept your involvement with this truce.”

My nails gripped the bottom of the desk; claws extended, digging into the supporting beam of one leg. Contemplating.

“Take him on one mission, and see how he does.”

“…….” Fuck.

He sighed softly, “Just one mission.”

“……….Fine. And if this doesn’t work out-“

He was already prepared, “I will go back on my word, I promise.”

I situated myself outside in the Entrance Hall, resting my side against the towering, assassin statue that overlooked the moving river of bodies. The candlelight flickered above, giving the cavern corridor a soft orange, and painting the golden trimming of hung paintings a bright luminosity.

The boys arrived on time as always. The first to notice me naturally was James, who had to do a double-take to reassure it was me.

“Good morning, Elysia,” he stood center of Stephen and Clement, all three bowing their heads respectably. He fixed his soft curls, making sure none of them hung low on his forehead, “You don’t usually greet us this way. Is there…a special occasion?”

“You could say that,” I replied lowly. “_Today is going to be different; report your findings upstairs, and meet me here when you’re done_.”

“I didn’t quite catch that,” Stephen poked his ear out from within his hood, tilting his head as if to hear my words better. “Ooh, is it a surprise? I bet it’s a surprise.”

“Let’s go,” James sighed, nevertheless signaling the two to follow. Stephen strode with a swing in his step while Clement tucked something within the confinements of his cloak, giving me a brief smile before departing.

What an odd boy…..

Five minutes later, the worst had arrived.

Bellac had an angry stride about him, and the jolt in his steps always alerted me when he was on the way; it aided in preparing me mentally for whatever assault he was going to burden me with. Despite his harsh arrival, Bellac stood in front of me a yard distance, the light from above cascading to reflect along his aged, slightly scarred face. Each telling a tale, though I only knew half of them.

Beside him was Arno Dorian, fidgeting with the sleeves of his cloak, and fixing his hair within his cowl. The brown locks swung down to collect on the top of his cheeks, and the top of his nose glistened a stripe of yellow.

He was so young; imagine seeing him turn into someone like Bellac…..left a sour note in my mouth.

Bellac crossed his arms, hanging his head semi-low so that his dark strands swayed briefly before jerking his head up to address me, “Elysia.”

“Bellac,” I prompted back, and looked to Arno. “Boy.”

“Master Elysia,” Arno cleared his throat, rocking his heel back and forth. “Nice to see you again…..” He sounded unsure of this, yet not against it. I wondered what Bellac had told him leading them here.

“We split the time we have him,” I insisted.

Bellac pressed his lips together, stroking his beard, “….I have the boy for four days, you get him for three.”

“Sounds fair,” I accepted that, for now. “I will bring him back to you….in one piece.”

“Fine by me-“ Bellac snatched the back of Arno’s neck, making the young man hunch his head, “I will see you in three days’ time, pisspot.”

“Sounds like the divorce settlement is going well-“

“Shut up,” Bellac snorted, letting go of him before giving me one last look. Satisfied of my blank expression, he moved himself from sight.

Arno reached inside his hood again, but resulted in taking it off to properly fix his hair this time, “I take it he didn’t accept the news well.”

“You could say that,” I agreed, resting a hand on my hip, the other signaling Arno to lift his face, “Once you’ve become acquainted, we’ll set out. Am I clear?”

“Crystal, yes.”

The three men came back. Stephen recognized Arno immediately and grinned deviously of the withheld news. James and Clement looked at one another, perplexed why Arno Dorian was here.

I didn’t wait for them to ask, indicating Arno to turn around to face them properly, “James, Stephen, Clement. This is Arno Dorian; he will be joining our team, as stated by the council.”

"_Quoi_?" Clement’s jaw dropped while James rubbed the midpoint of his brows, staring at me with scrunched brows. I heard the protests already, and the thousands of questions he was storing within his mental capsule.

Stephen slid up next to Arno in a sly saunter and flung an arm around his shoulders, "I now dub thee Little Brother, and your job is to listen to us Wiser Elders and not die!" He greeted cheekily, grin widening.

Before Clement could throw a hand up in disbelief, James held his to stay the action, clearing his throat and extending his palm to the younger man, "Arno, we've met briefly before. Since you're officially joining us, I'm James Haul. You've met Stephen, and this is Clement Metivier."

"Charmed," Arno shook firmly, though caught Stephen's cement smile (and missed Clement’s judging gaze), "Is it always like this?"

“You best get used to it,” I answered promptly, and commenced our way out the headquarters, “James is my second in command; if there is an issue you have, you go to him if you feel uncomfortable addressing it to me.”

“Ahh, understood.” Arno fumbled, adjusting the chuckling Stephen’s grip on him. “Though I don’t think Little Brother...suites me.”

“Of course it does. You’re the youngest-“ Stephen cut in, lifting a finger and booping it on his nose. “Little Brother, or do you prefer Problem Child?”

“...I will take Little Brother, if I had to choose one.”

He shook Arno’s shoulders at this excitedly, "I knew you'd see it my way! I'm persistent like that." Stephen abruptly threw his other arm around Arno’s lean waist to wrap him in a hug. "You'll see that Aunt Elysia's family is much better than Uncle Bellac's family."

"What is he referring to?" Arno was quick to point out the strange tendency, pushing his hand out to distance Stephen’s smothering embrace, “H-Hey-“

Clement held back a scoff, "_I think he likes you_.”

Arno blinked at this, but a sudden surge of pink trickled at the edges of his cheekbones, “_Very funny_-“

“What’s he saying? I wanna knoooooow.”

“Stephen….” James came to his needed rescue, pulling at the nape of Stephen’s jacket with gentle care. The young Dorian fixed himself properly, clearing his throat to and glanced about him to assess his current situation. "So how long have you studied under Master Elysia?" he decided to question. Resourceful.

Stephen gave a very small huff of a laugh, expression focused as they walked, “Studied is a very loose term. I've been a Master for a long time, even if it’s not acknowledged here.”

James and Clement were used to that statement by now (whether they had pursued for an answer, I did not know), though Arno was not acquainted with Stephen’s explanations, and didn’t accept it just yet.

“What….do you mean by that?”

Stephan gifted him with a side-eyed look, lips quirked bitterly, “I haven’t always been in France, y’know. Hence, the not understanding the language. The first Brotherhood I started in taught me everything I know. I’ve gone through the trials of becoming a Master through them, and I passed with flying colors.”

“Oh…”

“But, apparently other Brotherhood Masteries don’t matter to this French Brotherhood.”

Arno contemplated with a brow raised, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, “So where _are_ you from?”

Stephen’s eyes darted back to the front, his stoic, mission mask possessing him suddenly, “You wouldn’t know the place if I named it…but it’s somewhere in America. It wouldn’t matter to you.”

“…Where in America?” Arno leaned, alarming James and Clement who exchanged a glance to the now uncomfortable Stephen. James attempted to clear his throat to dissuade Arno’s curiosity-

“If Stephen would have wanted to say, he would’ve told you,” I deflected.

That didn’t satisfy the Dorian, “It’s merely a question.”

Stephen in turn took a deep breath through his nose, and unexpectedly shot his head about, sternly examining Arno’s face. A look that rarely emerged, but it was one I was familiar with, and one Quemar always and forever was associated with.

“When I say it won’t matter to you, it will probably _not matter to you_ to know it,” Stephen finished, and kept his stare ahead. Though, Stephen wasn’t one to keep a lingering, disturbed mood, and his tune changed at flip of a coin, “But…if you mean being partnered and teaming up with Elysia? I’ll take that. It’s been….three years maybe? It’s hard to remember; time is a difficult thing to keep track of for me.”

"Hmm...._How about you, Clement_?" Arno averted his attention to the bulkier man, trying to dissuade the awkwardness that dared to linger.

"_Hmm....going to two years_," he answered, pushing the furry ear that tried to poke out from his chest. "_I joined the other men that came from Marseilles to aid the Brotherhood here in Paris. It's been an experience_."

"_I imagine someone like Elysia doesn't keep things light_," he sighed, and leaned to whisper, "Bellac is a bit easier to get along with."

Clement darted his eyes momentarily toward Stephen’s figure, “….._Depends on who you ask_._”_

Stephen muttered under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like _Bellac is an asshole_. James caught it, and smacked the back of his palm against Stephen’s chest who lightly grunted in surprise. “You know it’s true…” he lowly relinquished.

We arrived at one section of a gated entryway, outside near the main riverbank. I faced the exiting men who remained in shadow while my back was lit from the bright sun of the morning. The fog that once was dissipated to coat the pebbled ground with a shine, but nothing more of the chilly air remained from here on out.

“So,” Arno clapped his hands together, exhaling out an anticipated sigh, “What’s in store?”

I crossed my arms confidently on my chest, “First….a test.”

"Okay, interested,” he stretched his arms out, rocking on his heel again to lengthen his leg out momentarily. “What will you have me do now then? Surely I've given you a _promising_ idea of what I'm capable of."

That alone surge a chain reaction; James had to catch himself in the midst of a rough cough, and Clement pressed a fist to his lips to hide the snort.

Stephen didn't bother hiding his cackle. He leaned into James, letting the other support him as mirth coated his voice, “Maybe we should call him Problem Child, huh?" Even Clement couldn’t hide his amusement at this, and suddenly Arno’s triumphant smile faltered, leaving him with a full-on bashful smear along his hardened cheeks.

I narrowed my eyes, but a smile played, immediately earning a worried glance from the regretful boy, “Actually, no. I haven’t seen what you’re capable of. Why don’t you _show_ us?” I snatched the back of his coat, and dragged him to the edge of the Siene River where he momentarily flailed his arms to regain balance. I surveyed the structures, but found what I was looking for.

I pointed, “You see that?”

Arno followed, squinting his eyes to avoid the direct sunlight, “_Notre Dame_, yes I see it. Hard to miss-“

I didn’t hesitate to interrupt him, “You are to meet my team up there, on the oak roof near the backend of where the buttresses lay.”

“A race??” This peaked his interest, and he smirked with hands on his lean hips to recover his worth. “Sounds like a splendid idea.” I let go of him, watching him roll his shoulders in excitement.

“Then you better get a move on,” I nodded lazily upwards. His brows scrunched, then when he turned to look behind him-

“Huh?? Where did they-“

“Because you’re already falling behind,” I swayed my finger behind me, indicating to the three who were already across the bridge with light thuds, making their way up the structure of a hotel to access the rooftop.

“Ahhh....” Arno’s shoulders slumped with a forced smile. “Fantastic-“

“Why are you still here??”

He bolted at my interrogation, lurching his way up the cobblestone wall behind him to run across the bridge.

It wasn’t hard to keep up with him this time. Many obstacles slowed his sprint, but I had to give him credit...Arno could _move_.

He abused scaffoldings and ramps without a thought, and I was almost positive he didn’t care whether they would hold or fall until he got there. His leaps were forceful and long along the tiled rooftops, tossing his body willingly that he looked like a monkey of sorts from how his arms waved to grab the next holding. Each leap pushed with function, fingers nimble and swift to grip the metal bars, stone edges, and window sills that came his way.

He touched base on the floor yet again, having arrived at the cathedral’s vicinity. He seemed overwhelmed of the crowd emerging from the church itself, and the bell tolled of the morning mass arriving. I could see him try to push and shove his way through; James, Stephen and Clement having arrived not too long ago watched from across.

Stephen seated himself against a stone statue’s shoulders, perched on a precarious ledge; his own hands tapping against the head of the sculpted, male angel. Clement kneeled beside James on a leveled stairway; Eugene the cat emerged from his coat to slump on his shoulders, clearly entranced of how high they were from the unbeknownst civilians below.

I climbed without a slip, approaching Arno who had slowed his pace, only due to the fact he sensed me behind him.

“I’m going to beat you at this rate,” he joked, swinging himself upwards to the next story. I rolled my eyes. With one last haul over a steeping rooftop, we stood ourselves properly to approach the two, Stephen waving happily of our arrival.

“Took you long enough,” he teased.

“A bit of a warning would’ve helped,” Arno quickly fixed the scarf around his neck to tuck it back in place. “How was that??”

“Good,” I admitted, resting my hip against the stone railing, a large rose window of the church looming behind us. “You utilize your environment when needed, and abuse your body’s capabilities to enforce your next movements. You’re agile.”

Arno grinned broadly.

I replied next, “Now, your test.”

“……Test? Was that not it?” Arno leaned back when I stood in front of him, easily towering with my hands on my hips.

“A simple one, I’m sure you’ll nail it,” I tilted my head, nodding it to the side to indicate the graveyard right below us, only a street away. “I want you to steal a pair of keys.”

“...That’s....” Arno’s eyes rolled across my face, his chin dropping from how he slightly swung his head about in disbelief. Unsure if he had heard correctly. Then his coffee eyes halted right on my gold orbs, “it?”

“That’s it,” I reassured.

His eyes narrowed, “What’s the catch?” I could sense the other three hiding their smiles.

I thought a moment, “Don’t get caught.”

He pouted at the insult, “....Okay. Which keys?”

Again I signaled to the occupied cemetery that nearly took the entire side of _Notre Dame_. On closer inspection, it was heavily secured with iron bars on all sides, each pair of guards at every opening; a group of armed four did a rotation across the dry landscape, and in the center of it laid a cross grave-marker. A high-official sentry spoke alongside the churchyard monk that were right next to it.

“The monk has the keys,” I continued. “I want you to retrieve them.”

“Gladly.” Arno fixed his hood, and proceeded his way down by grabbing the carved gargoyles, mumbling to himself _I’ll pass with flying colors_….

The four of us regrouped to stand right in front of the rose window, having a clear view of Arno’s trek as he controlled his descension.

"How long do you think before we have to bail him out?" Stephen asked, peeking his head over in interest. Arno dropped with a soft thud onto the grassy floor, shuffling through the crowd of pedestrians once he stepped onto the street.

"I'll give him the benefit of doubt," James answered.

“_How long do you think he’ll last, Clement_?” I translated a moment after. The bulkier man merely raised three fingers without even looking to us, making James stare.

"Three minutes?"

“_Oui_,” Clement wiggled his fingers, then continued to do so to entertain the cat curled in his other arm.

“_You must have a lot of faith then_,” I replied without missing a beat.

“…Ehhhh…”

It was simple. It really was.

But Arno Dorian was something to behold.

We all attentively watched, the Dorian boy slithering his way to reach the gated perimeter conspicuously. He peaked around a pedestal to look through the bars, calculating what I presumed was a plan in mind.

He counted the steps, and once the mobile posse strode past, Arno made his move to climb the fence and land safely in a bush. He peeked through the branches, spotting the keyholder arranging some vegetation on a headstone with the sentry walking away, occupied.

Arno again maneuvered his way about, pressing his thin body behind several monuments of the stationary graves, making sure not to make himself noticeable to the patrolling group that stopped and scanned the area. He was silent as a mouse, again resourceful to use the obstacles in the field to hide his lean figure.

Stephen hummed quietly in this throat, his bangs escaping his hood as he tilted his head to the side, “He's got good form. We're not gonna have to break bad habits, so far."

"Arno does well by himself from what I've noticed...but the real question is how does he handle pressure, and if he's flexible to adapt depending on the situation." James added.

Again, the Dorian boy slid and crawled his way to the center piece of the cemetery, only two yards away from the grave keeper, and not a guard looking his direction. He was in the clear, and ever so slowly did he reach out his hand….

Piece of cake.

He bit on his tongue, his boots hardly moving a pebble and eyes locked on the jingling keys at the elder man’s hip. His chocolate eyes widened in his approaching victory, fingers splayed out like a fan and the tip of his middle finger touching the circling ring connected to the elder man’s hip-

_Chime_.

The keys pulled, Arno aiming to make a bolt the second he could. What he didn’t anticipate-

“_What is this_?!”

-were that the keys were literally attached to another metal ring, tied to the keeper’s belt.

“_This again?! How many times do I have to tell you cretins not to steal my keys_!!!”

“_Again_??” Arno flinched back, missing the swinging shovel. “Hey!”

“_Guards! GUARDS! A robber in the grounds_!!”

“……_Merde_.”

And there it was.

“Wow,” Stephen blinked, as Clement and James dropped their shoulders, watching Arno scramble to his feet, and the entire cemetery swarmed with all the guards that had been in earshot. He zigzagged around the headstones, avoiding the clutter of men with skidding boots across the dirt floor. He nearly tripped on some stone rubble until he finally balanced himself on a tier of boxes and barrels, launching himself into the air and over the entire height of the tall fence-

“OH!” all three men winced as Arno crashed himself into a passing duo…..two royal guards of the city.

“_You there, citizen_!”

“_THIEF_!”

“_SOMEONE STOP HIM_!”

“There he goes,” James stared in disbelief, an entire armada of flailing individuals chasing behind one cloaked figure in the lead.

“…….Best to follow,” I advised nonchalantly.

We searched for twenty minutes.

Eventually, we reached a crossing bridge, the _Pont Notre-Dame_ not too far off; it was cluttered with mishappen apartments that were built on top of one another, and nothing but rubble waste littering the pothole-infested crosswalk. I heard the sound of ragged breathing, and walked myself underneath an opening of a complex. The men followed as we stood on a poorly constructed balcony, the breathing just to my left.

It didn’t surprise me to see Arno was pressed against the side of the wall away from the balcony view, catching his breath and fanning himself with the side of his cowl as he faced the north side of the large river. It was quite a sight to see the crowd of guards still lurking around when we had arrived, but had given up the search at that point.

“What the hell was that?” Arno quipped with an advance, standing himself up and semi-glaring up at me. Such a small, easily-offended gremlin.

“Thomas is the gravekeeper stationed near _Notre Dame_, and he is well trained in catching thieves who try to take his keys,” I informed passively.

“You knew??”

“Everyone behind me took the same test; you’re the only one who failed,” I crossed my arms, “You should ask questions next time, rather than just jumping into situations foolishly.” He couldn’t help himself, obviously hurt that I had played some sort of trick on him.

“Ahh, cheer up, champ!” Stephen swooped in, and patted Arno shoulder in reassurance, nearly making him topple to the riverbed below. “There’s plenty of times to keep failing, not just this one!”

“……That’s sooooooooo reassuring,” Arno prolonged his stare.

“Now then, we have a new mission that deals with a stolen artifact,” I held out the piece of parchment, James recognizing my tone as he stood beside me, taking the pressed folder gently.

“...A painting?” he raised a brow. “From the _Louvre_?”

“Stolen late last night,” I confirmed as he looked through the rolled parchment, Clement right beside him to look over what the mission entailed. “We are to retrieve it; it is said it holds high significance to the painter who is well renowned in Paris.”

“_Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun_,” James recited, trying to decipher if he had heard it before. Also, ignoring the clawed paw tugging at his sleeve while Clement tried to retract it from the confinements of his coat.

"_Le Brun_?" Arno repeated, earning the attention of the three others. "Oh--_I'm...familiar with her work. Monsieur de la Serre had commissioned this woman to paint Elise once. _My uh…step-sister."

“_The Templar_?” Clement unexpectedly asked. “_De la Serre’s daughter_?”

Arno’s jaw tightened, but my stare was a much better reminder for him, “….._Yes. That one_.” He remained bothered, but silent.

"That'll be some use to us then when the time comes," James acknowledged with a nod.

“Until then, we won’t mention it. We’re unclear of how much information has been released, and Sophie didn’t exactly brief me entirely on the matter,” I answered. “From what I do know: this _Élisabeth_ is planning to leave the city, and with haste. We are to retrieve the painting as fast as possible.”

"By all means, let's hurry then." James regarded.

The masses of people swarmed the _Ventre de Paris_ district as they normally did, but something about today and the way the light hit the crowds somehow enlarged the numbers to me. I avoided touching shoulders, and if any only allowed James to stick beside me. We passed by the _Grand Chatelet _prison, and then came across the border districts of _Hotel de Ville_ and _Halles_ where the meat-sellers and their various stalls were stationed. There hung the freshly slaughtered chickens and skinned pork; glistening guts and sliced limbs were in full display, some unlucky to avoid the planted maggots that the flies took refuge to. The cobblestone street and river were victim to the dumping of pigs’ blood and undesired bones and organs; animals freshly killed and some even laid on their back with their entire underbelly sliced open for all to see; the carelessness and poor practice gave a burning stench in the air…but I was used to it.

Further down we passed by shoe cleaners posts, fishermen, and medicine and herb stalls; towering cranks decked to lift cargo from embarked boats to street level, men put to their day labor. And despite all this socializing and human interactions, that didn’t hide the scuffles of various people, their raised voices of overpriced goods, nor the overturned wagons that had been ransacked of every valuable thing and part. Skeletons they remained, burnt to dark crisps the nights before in protest by the people.

Angry people. The total embodiment of human nature, what it was succumbed to.

The team trailed behind me as we walked into the elevated, segmental arch of the main building; the expansive courtyard remained unoccupied with only a single fountain planted in sight, surrounded by black lampposts. It was bone-dry, the statute of a naked male in contrapposto when he held onto olive branches in his left hand, directed to his inclined face.

The sound of various voices caught my attention, and again I led the way to enter an opened doorway. A wide hallway presented itself to us, everyone including myself craning our heads back to look at the high-ceiling, detailed artwork hung on both and all sides like seeping branches.

"This palace is extraordinary..." James voiced while Stephen whistled out an impressed tune., "_I've only heard that the art gallery in here was recently completed...never thought I'd be lucky enough to see it for myself_."

"_You're sounding like a tourist, James. It’s not like this won't be here tomorrow_,” Clement replied, earning an amused stare from the British assassin.

"_Yes but I might not be. You may never know, one day I might be on the next ship to London_." James quipped, with a nudge of his elbow, "_I have to commit this to memory_."

"_All right, all right_," Clement waved him off, blowing a brief raspberry out.

“_Good evening_.” A well-dressed man approached fast enough to stop us near the beginning of the hall, preventing any further entry, “_Are you here to see someone? The art exhibit is closed today_.”

“_We’re here for Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun. We were personally asked for our arrival for an incident that happened last night_,” I informed.

“_Ahh....you are not part of the...guard are you_?” He fiddled with his gloved hands, scratching his cheek.

“_No, we are not. A special...task, if you want to put it in perspective_,” I hinted.

“_Then I will ask you to wait here. Please. No further_.” He waved to our direction, then sped-walked to signal the standing security nearby to watch us. I crossed my arms, inspecting the large selections of neo-classical and fable-based pieces.

“Not the welcome party I was expecting,” Arno quipped, and the only thing he has said since earlier.

“We are not always welcomed to where we are invited. Keep that in mind,” I replied after. “Or you’ll get your head stuck in the clouds.”

"The idea never even arrived in my mind." Arno retorted, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling.

"What do you make of the scene?" James began, making himself visible to catch my attention, "I can imagine a place as guarded as such would make for an outside theft hardly possible."

"Are you suggesting someone working here might have taken it?" I inquired.

"Perhaps...it's only a hunch as far as we can tell. Not until we meet with the artist and receive further details,” he relented.

It didn’t take long for her to arrive as she hurriedly strutted down the hallway, signaling the guard to stand down.

“_Are you the group Sophie referred me to_?” It was brunette woman, not pale in complexion but she struck as such when the sunlight of the day hit her skin when she stepped into the vicinity of it. Her soft curls were upkept, a red ribbon tied above her head to make the front curls frame her rounded face. She had pigmented pink cheeks, and small lips to match. Her pearly-pink dress was lined with clean ruffles draping over her shoulders and chest, the same color cuffed at her wrists. Much like Charlotte, a fluffed hat sat on her head, except an assortment of flowers accompanied it.

“_Yes, we are. Élisabeth_?” I approached.

She nodded energetically, and held out her hand, “_Yes yes. Thank you so much for coming_.”

I clamped my hand with hers, her fingers small compared to my lean ones. I retracted, and signaled to the four males behind me, “_James, Stephen, Clement and Arno are my committed team, and they will be in your service as well_.”

“Bless you,” she bowed her head, “Please follow me. I’ll show you the way.”

We were ushered down the embellished passageway, and into a different sector of the building that was closed off to everyone but the staff. It was a rather large room that resembled much like an office, various stored paintings set aside with only a few tall windows giving the room the light it needed.

_Élisabeth_ led us near a vacant desk, and presented the boarded paintings that had already been boxed.

She fixed a curl away from her eye, sighing, “Thank you for coming, again; I simply didn’t know who else to turn to. Sophie is a god-send, and said she could help me in any way she can, but I knew she was busy with personal matters of her own.”

“That’s why we’re here; we’re experienced in retrieving artifacts and the like by all means. She informed me you were leaving the country?”

“Yes...I am,” she seemed nervous.

“When?” I asked.

“....Tomorrow.” _Oh_.

“That is rather soon,” James blinked, the gears in his head turning to maximum effort.

“It’s urgent. I know its abrupt but the painting is very important to me,” she twiddled her thumbs, almost embarrassed of revealing her departure.

“What does the painting consist of?” I gestured to her, “Describe it.”

“My daughter and me,” she recollected, and shaped the size out with her hands, “It’s this wide. She’s sitting on my lap, and I’m embracing her from behind.”

"A self-portrait?" James's mouth drew to a hard line, holding his chin with one hand, "Seems rather....odd that someone would steal that."

"Out of all of my works, I don't understand why they would choose to steal that either,” her fingers gripped the helm of her sleeves. “When I had arrived earlier in the day, it was in its own box. When I noticed the top had been slightly ajar, I opened it to find it gone.”

"Do you have any sorts of enemies, rivals, friends that might not even wish for you to go?" She seemed hesitant when James pushed it a tad, "Any information might help with finding this painting. The sooner you have it, the sooner you can go."

"Well, I can only think of a few..." She pursued her lips, a defeated sigh escaping her yet again, "My husband has aided in my success, and is an art dealer. He has been reluctant for my leaving, yet he has not barred me from leaving with our only daughter.”

“Anyone else?” I pressured.

“I have a rival here by the name of _Adélaïde_… _Adélaïde Labille-Guiard_. We were admitted to the _Academia_ on the same day in fact. If not them...the only other one I can imagine could be Jacques-Louis David."

"The painter?" Arno remarked with raised brow, familiar with the name it appeared. “_The_ David? He’s here?”

"Yes, he's...a difficult man to say the least," she acknowledged.

“Then we shall make the rounds, and speak to each person,” I nodded. “Where is each person located?”

“My husband would be outside to the back, actually,” she replied. “He’s assisting me in packing the rest of the paintings I have acquired. I’m aware that Ms. _Guiard_ is somewhere around the building, though unsure. Maybe in the courtyard, I’m certain I saw her earlier…..And I know _Monsieur_ David is in the teaching room, where the Masters group to discuss important matters, like the _Prix_.”

“While we question your husband, I suggest you make yourself scarce. Maybe take your daughter out for a bit.”

“Of course,” she nodded gently at my directions. “Whatever you can, I will appreciate it. I really...would love that painting back, is all.”

“Consider it done.” I considered the possibilities, and looked upon the four males, “We have three suspects thus far, so we’ll split up to cover ground. We shall meet in the hallway of the entrance when we have talked and gathered all we could. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” all three nodded, though Arno was quick to follow with a raised hand.

“There’s three...how are we to split up-“

“You’re coming with me,” I rebounded, crossing my arms. “So I can watch you.”

He pouted.

“Clement, you will question _Élisabeth’s_ husband, while James and Stephen will find themselves with _Adélaïde_, the rival. Any questions?”

"_Are we going to report the thief to the police_?" Clement asked, but _Élisabeth _jumped in the matter hastily, waving her arms to catch our looks.

"_No, I'd be expected to stay longer in France because of it. I would just like my painting back, that's it_."

"We shall return with it by the end of the day, madam. _You have our word_," James rested a hand to his chest, and genteelly bent to pay his respects.

She smiled widely, holding her hands together, “Oh, thank you!” She bowed her head one last time, and occupied herself with a chore near the farthest desk of the room, pulling out what remained of her last trinkets to take with her.

Stephen grinned and poked James’ arm once, “Our word, huh? Well, we'd better make sure not to break it." James closed his eyes, then when he opened them his sight shot to the ceiling. Clearly and silently exasperated already.

"Let's just...be on our way. Yes, let's." James was quick to move down the hall, Stephen hot on his heels. Clement merely gave a wave to signal his exit, heading outside and leaving me with Arno.

"So...to David then?"

“To David.”

We headed to the closest attendant available, and asked directions for the Master Room that was briefed to us. He fixed us down another hall, and in tow we stalked another section of art-infected walls. Soon we arrived at a large conference room. One desk in particular was the messiest of them all, and currently in use by the man in question.

His wavy hair was shifted to the left side, some bangs plastered on his forehead from the sweat he gathered of moving about. He had large eyes and a small mouth, but it was foolish to even think that this man was humble and quiet. His neck was covered entirely in a neck piece, an expensive looking blouse adoring his upper chest with clean pants. A muddled apron of various, earthy-colors was wrapped around his waist.

“_Baah....what is this interruption for? Can’t you see I’m busy_?” He waved a hand, displaying an occupied canvas. “_Make it quick, so you may be on your way_.”

I kept my peace, though tried to level my eyes with David as I saw Arno moving about beside me, clearly absorbed by something else. Uncontrolled and distracted.

“_We are merely questioning the disappearance of Élisabeth’s piece from late last night_-“ he scoffed midway of my sentence, “-_and i wanted to ask_-“

“_No I have not seen it_,” he answered flatly.

I replied in the same tone, “_if you had taken it_.”

“_Absolutely not_,” he defended, tipping an oiled brush into the palette he held in his other hand. “_Why on earth would I lay hands on that painting_?”

“_You are giving me reasons to think otherwise_,” I answered, narrowing my eyes.

“_Listen_-“ he put the palette down, but didn’t let go of the brush, “_I am aware most painters in this academy have a lot of differing views, but it remains fact that despite that, I would never lay my hands on another person’s work._”

“_You know which one is missing then,_” I recited.

“_Yes I have seen the painting, yes I knew it was in that room, and yes, I knew Élisabeth is moving to another country the very next day, but there is no logical reason why I would carry about such an act on impulse. We have argued, but I respect Élisabeth for her skills and personality_.”

I replied back, "_How long have you known her_?"

"_Almost ten years now_."

"_You were always in disagreement_?"

"_Not always_."

"_What is your daily routine_?"

David put his materials down, obviously accepting we wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, "_I wake up at five in the morning, do some practice sketches, head to the nearby café to grab morning brunch with some artists of the academy. From there we come to the studio, and I stay here until late night_."

"_After_?"

"_I head home, or I sleep here if I lose track of time_."

"_Is that what you did last night_?"

"_I did not, I stayed in the building and overworked myself. Next thing I knew, the sun has risen…but I did go out to grab breakfast. At the café_."

"_Did you hear anything strange during the nighttime_?" I persisted.

David thought for a moment, "_No....it was.... relatively quiet. The guards made the rounds as usual, making sure no one took anything_."

"_Yet a painting was taken under their nose_?"

David shrugged, exasperated, "_Evidently, yes_."

"_Then it must have been someone the guards knew_," Arno suddenly pointed out, resting his hands behind his back as he turned to look at us from the other side of the room. "_If it had been anyone else, an alarm would've been sounded off, and you would've heard it_."

"_If you see it that way, then yes, you would be correct_," David agreed. "_Then it was someone that is known here_."

"_But it wasn’t you_," I arched a brow.

David glared, affronted, "_Are you accusing me of stealing the portrait_?"

“_Merely trying to piece the parts together,_” I crossed my arms.

David snatched up his palette and brush again, and turned his back to me, “_You best look harder, because I am not your suspect_."

Stephen and James were fairing a bit better. But not by much.

_Adélaïde _was indeed in the courtyard where they had entered, accompanied with a sketchbook in hand and seated on a provided bench underneath the shade of a massive tree. She was studying a flowerbed with her bright, curling brown hair hanging down her temples, James able to make out the quick strokes her arm gave. She was dressed casually, not as upright as _Élisabeth _but that might have been because she had been drawing all morning front the smudge marks on her arm and dress. She wasn’t afraid to get into her work and it took the duo to stand right beside her to make her notice them.

“_It’s impolite to stare without introducing yourself_,” she quipped, not once looking up at them.

"_Apologies madame. If I may_\--" James gestured to Stephen, "_My name is James, and this is my partner Stephen. We're looking into a missing painting_."

"_You must be referring about Le Brun's then_." She batted an eye to them, "_I haven't seen it since she painted it. It was on a large canvas, easily accessible to everyone here but it would've been obvious someone was trying to run off with it_."

"_So, you're denying any involvement in this_?"

"_I've been painting the whole time yesterday since the morning and into the last evening...you can ask the guard when he makes his rounds_," she quipped. Stephen eyed her, somewhat bothered of her rude tone.

“_In any case you’re wasting your time. It’s a portrait she can recreate, and no need to be so uptight about. I’ve seen it, it’s adequate for what it is but it’s not worth this_.” She flipped to a new page, and focused her attention to the marble statue situated in the grounds, clearly influenced by the nude statues from Italy. “_Is there anything else you want to ask of me? If not, then leave me in peace_.”

"_Is there anyone else you can imagine that might have an agenda against Élisabeth_?" James continued to the best of his abilities, "_Or anything that might have been misplaced when you had gotten into the building today_?"

_Adélaïde_'s brows knitted together, her concentration wavering upon the sketch. Her pencil halted, her lips parting in an _O_ shape before looking to the duo, "_Check with the guard...I had overheard someone saying Le Brun's husband had come last night to claim something of hers. I wouldn't be surprised if he's trying to keep something of his wife and child...after all, they're leaving without him_."

"_Hmm.....understood_," James nodded, "_Then, we take our leave. Thank you for answering our questions_."

"_Satisfied_?"

"_Yes....for now_," James answered. He took the first leave, Stephen following behind as he kept close pace.

Once they were out of earshot, Stephen nudged him a bit, whispering lowly, "What do you think, James? Did she give you enough information?" James translated the conversation, making Stephen hold his chin in question. "So, she thinks the husband did it. She brings up valid points...."

“We’ll just have to see.”

Lastly, Clement followed _Élisabeth_ when he realized the building had many back exits and asked for her aid. She agreed. Upon seeing the man she called her husband, he kept his respective distance as they spoke near the carriage provided, and a young girl of six years old being helped out.

“_Who’s daddy’s big girl_?” The husband aided her, and set her down and knelt to fix her hair in her tied bonnet. “_Hello, Élisabeth_,” he greeted.

She smiled, though it was quite...sad, “_Hello Jean. The rest of the paintings are inside the studio. The gentleman behind me, however would like to speak to you_.”

His eyes perked up at this, addressing Clement before looking to her, “_What’s this about_?”

“_They’re trying to find the painting that went missing_.”

“_Oh...I see_,” he blinked slowly, but nodded. “_Then I shall assist any way I can, then..._”

“_I will take Julie to the fountain. Come, child_,” she held out her hand, and her daughter beamed at this, taking it. Clement stepped aside, letting them pass unbothered.

“_Are we going to leave soon_?”

“_Yes my flower. Tomorrow_.”

“_Why isn’t daddy coming again_?”

“_It’s...complicated. Here...we’ll talk more over here...._” they walked out of earshot.

That left Jean with Clement. The man fixed his pressed coat, adjusting his collar with a clearing of his throat, “_Good day. I take it Élisabeth has informed you of what happened_?”

"_She has Monsieur, I've only come to ask some questions for you_." Clement relented, "_When was the last time you saw the painting_?"

"_Only a few days ago. I was here with my daughter; she has an ambition to become an artist like her mother and I….It’s...her favorite painting for obvious reasons_."

"_I can understand, and how are relations with your wife_...." Clement caught the shift in his attitude, "_I don't mean to pry...but I couldn't help but overhear_..."

"...._My wife fears for this revolution that’s knocking on our doorstep_," he rubbed his neck, seeming exhausted, "_She has many royal commissioners and in the eyes of those that want the royalists gone...she could be seen as a sympathizer. It's...it hasn't been easy lately...considering she wants to protect our daughter as well_."

"_Why don't you go with her_?" he couldn’t help but ask.

"_I can't. Paris is my home, despite what it’s turning into; I won't abandon her_."

Clement pressed his lips together, but again, “_I understand that. I’m merely asking_.”

Jean exhaled, apologetic in his gaze, “_I love Élisabeth, and I would do anything to make sure she’s safe, and happy. I have no clue who could’ve taken the painting._”

“_Do you have any ideas who might?_”

He thought a moment, “_Hmmm….I know the David artist is....a bit difficult to work with, and has a battling view of art that contradicts against Élisabeth’s, as well as the other woman painter here, Adélaïde. I’m not saying it could be him...but he strikes me as...suspicious in that regard. You don’t think he could’ve taken it....right_?”

"_I wouldn't know for sure until I investigate the matter myself_," Clement explained. He pondered for a moment, drumming his fingers against his wrist, "_Is David....a political man_?" If memory served him right….

"_I...have heard some stories, yes_." Jean cleared his throat, "_Why would that have anything to do with this_?"

"_Perhaps...it would seem shameful to leave Paris during her greatest time of need. Hmm_?" Clement presented, gesturing to the building behind them, "_Your wife has had commissions from the royal family, had she not_?"

"_Do you think he's trying to hold her accountable to that_??"

"_It's...an idea_."

"_It could be.....I don't know David that well, so I don't know what he could be capable of. But...if someone like him is trying to lower Élisabeth's confidence in her craft....that won't sit well with me_," Jean narrowed his eyes, and held up a hand.

“_Yes, I understand that,_” Clement continued.

"_Just because she's a woman; she's more than capable of out-showing every person in this academy, including him! Damn this Revolution, and politics and the like. Why can't the people just get along, and come up with a solution for those who are suffering. Like us, who have no choice but to make life-changing decisions for the sake of being safe, and alive_??"

“_It’s a shame, really,_” the assassin replied, his chest warmed from the curled feline in his coat. Reassuring him.

Jean ran his fingers through his hair, clearly agitated now, "_I'm deeply saddened of my wife's leave...but there's nothing I could do to change her mind....no matter what I do or what I say. It's the best for her....it's the best for our little girl_...."

Clement left it at that.

We waited, the sun reaching its high afternoon as the rays of light lingered within the carpet floor of the hallway.

“What’s your assessment?” I decided to ask, making Arno turn in surprise of my interrogation.

“Hmm...he sure has a way of validating his sense of entitlement-“

“Focus,” I redirected.

He reeled back, quirking his mouth, “I think David is at fault...but we’ll have to see what everyone else says…..”

“Good,” I nodded. The collection of footsteps flowed within vicinity, and soon the entire team was regrouped. I took initiative, “Reports?”

“_Adélaïde_ was....interesting,” James recited, and explained the position she put herself in.

“Okay. Clement?”

He too recited his findings, James translating swiftly and lowly for Stephen to grasp.

“We’re at an impasse?” Arno concluded, raising a brow.

“Truth be told, they all are likely suspects, and they all have a reason to lie to us,” Stephen corrected, his hip cocked out. “The men on patrol knew the thief, but they’re also aware that nothing leaves without being checked.”

“Go on,” I encouraged.

“You don’t think...” James narrowed his eyes.

“The painting must still be in the building. It has to be,” Stephen finished, earning an impressed look from Arno.

“Okay, who did it?” Clement questioned in English, and this brought the subject at hand yet again.

“We have three suspects...but only one is the culprit,” I summarized, “What are your guesses?”

"Honestly...." Stephen scratched the back of his head, jostling his hood minutely. "Based off tone and what they said, I don't think that David did it. I could be wrong, but when you're passionate about something and you've set codes for yourself, you don't break those codes. You said that David acknowledged _Élisabeth_'s talent and his respect for her despite his dislike for her art? That is definitely signs of resolve to not break your own guidelines."

"You have a point." James agreed, scratching at the scruff on his chin thoughtfully. After a moment, James clapped his hands together and opened his palm to the area around them, "If it's between _Adélaïde_ and Jean, we have to consider between the two of them who has the most knowledge of the building...who knows the patrol, how to handle the painting. Both understand what needs to be done to handle it, but getting through the patrols and the building to hide something?"

"Jean has barely been here," Clement muscled in English, folding his arms together.

James nodded, and pointed upwards in conclusion, "Which would leave _Adélaïde_...but why? She expressed to Stephen and I that it's an easily replicable painting...so why go through the fuss of stealing it?"

“That’s what we’re going to solve,” I advised, and signaled James with a tilt of my head. “The rest of you, you have a specific task.”

“Shoot,” Stephen nodded fervently.

“Confirm with Jean and David, and find that painting. Ask the guards, look around every crevice and corner _Adélaïde_ has come into contact with. We’ll make sure she doesn’t leave until it is found or she confesses.”

“How sure are you about this?” Arno asked.

I looked back to him, “I trust my team.”

“And if you’re incorrect?”

“Then I’ll live with the consequences. Let’s not waste further time; the clock is ticking.”

James and I separated ourselves from the trio, who furthered their way down the corridor. I gave a glance to the British man, catching his glance.

“There’s a strong possibility that she won’t confess to committing the crime,” I started. “We’ll have to play her with words, and see if she gives us a hint of where it might be.”

"Maybe we can coax her into a false security, anything that might let her get cocky...if worse comes to worse, we can track her."

"Tracking is a risk if we don't have anything to follow," I replied next, gazing along the floor. We came to the door leading outside where the bench remained occupied. _Adélaïde_ was still there from what James had confirmed, though this time she was standing, fully engrossed in her sketchbook with her face practically on the page itself.

We arrived beside, and she sighed with a roll of her eyes, and shot a stare to James.

"_I thought I sent you away with every answer I could give_."

"_That may be_..." he said.

"_Now it's my turn_," I stepped into view, and eying the short woman who hugged her book to her chest, blinking rapidly of my interruption.

"_Who are you? Another one_?"

I rested my hands on my hips, tilting my head, "_My name is Elysia, and surely, you would be kind enough to answer the questions **I** have_.”

“_I believe I have given enough to satisfy your informant_,” she cemented. Bothered.

“_I’m not easily satisfied_,” I countered.

"_You'll have to excuse our bluntness; someone had been direct in mentioning your name as of someone to be suspicious_."

"_Who accused me_??" she frowned deeply. “_I didn’t do it!_”

"_Well we can't give away names_," James explained, "_But I've heard your side and we're trying to help....but we need your full assistance...she's starting to get worried and might take it to the police_."

_Adélaïde_ straightened her back, stuffing her pencil into her sketchbook to hold her place, "_Fine....ask away_."

I took the pedestal, and redirected her glare to me, "_Where were you yesterday_?"

"_I woke up at six, then headed to the cafe down the street_. _The one not too far off_."

"_Did you see anyone you recognized there_?" Did she see David there?

“_No_,” she answered.

I chewed on my tongue briefly, "_After_?"

"_I headed to the river, where there’s a flower shop. My mother is sick, so I buy her flowers there_." She rolled her eyes at my unchanged expression, but continued, "_When that was done, I grabbed a small lunch and made my way to the Louvre. I'm in the process of painting a large piece_."

"_You did this exactly yesterday_?"

"_I did, yes_."

I hummed, "_I want to see the piece_."

"_You can't be serious_." She prompted a leg out, giving me an agitated stance, "_Someone like **you** wouldn't appreciate the arts. It is futile I show you something that I have shown no one else_."

"_It's not a request. You wish to clear your name? Then you will show us the piece_."

".............._Very well then. Follow me_." She led us back inside the building.

James's head tilted slightly when we strode behind _Adélaïde_'s heels. We returned into the depths of the building, momentarily catching Clement looking amongst the paintings that remained in the hall. Judging from the frustrated face he offered us before he went out of view, he wasn’t having much clues (and I worried about the other two).

James exchanged a stare to me as I followed. My eyebrows rose, and indicated to _Adélaïde’_s back. He nodded in understanding, and fell a bit back behind me when she opened the door to a studio.

The room was well-kept, easels pushed towards the walls and chairs drawn close by. Probably a room she taught in considering how confidently _Adélaïde_ strolled to the other side of the room. I approached her while James kept his distance, scanning the room for any clues in subtle manner. He looked amongst the easels for any drawings or paintings left behind, only finding crude sketches of anatomy and poses from what was in my view.

The artist brought me to a lone canvas, kept shaded as the afternoon light hit within the windows from above. She stretched out her arm to it, this time no hint of impatience crossing her face.

The painting contained a sitting woman, holding some sort of instrument that was left unrefined in her elegant grasp. It looked like she barely started it, compared to the near complete paintings she had about.

"_You like to draw women a lot_," I pointed out before setting my eyes on the main one before me.

She kept poised, "_Women are easier on the eyes...don't you think_?"

I took a step forward, examining the fresh, thick strokes, resting my chin in my hand, "...._You're not wrong_. _How long have you been painting_?"

She didn't answer, questioning fully of my interest.

I inhaled swiftly, "_I had a friend who was an artist. I respected him highly, and his craft. Once…he drew me without me even noticing. He was…a funny little thing._"

She blinked at this, surprised, "_Hmm...since I was maybe....thirteen years of age. My father was a painter; I suppose I inherited the need to express myself_."

“_How long have you known Élisabeth?_”

“_For….a good amount of time_,” she confessed. “_We used to be together, all the time. But I suppose…we grew out of that mentality_.”

“_Sounds like you were close once_.”

“_We shared a lot of values in our work_…”

I offered her bait, "_David sounds like_....."

"_He is a special breed, I dare say_," _Adélaïde_’s shoulders relaxed, just a tad. "_He redefined the art world in such a short span of time....and now nothing gets past him within the Louvre_."

"_Would you say its restricting_?"

"_Hmmm...yes and no_," she commenced, and I didn't interrupt her. "_When you see a highly respected piece, you start to question if everything you had been doing had been worth it....and that changes you as a person. You start to question a lot of things in your life, not just art....and David did that. He brought growth...but it came with its share of controversy. Students, of all different upbringings come into the Louvre, and go to him in hopes that the talent he possesses will somehow...rub off on them. But...that is never the case_."

"_What usually happens_?"

"_Students grow.... insecure, disappointed. They hate everything they create, and never pick up a brush ever again. It's depressing...they become depressed_." She replied, fixing the locket resting on her collarbone. _"....I hit a point like that in my life. I never wanted to paint again; the tier had been set too high, and every consumer who steps within these walls....they want nothing but.....**a** David. It's an impossible task, unless you are him_."

The studio laid in silence, only the soft thuds of James' wandering sounding off along with the softened bird chirps from outside.

I nodded gently, "_But....here you are. Painting a new piece_."

She scoffed at this, and smiled, a little, "_It was futile to ever be like David...but I can be someone greater." _She nodded firmly, and clutched her necklace in her fist,_ "I can be a better painter, a better Adélaïde. Someone out there will like my paintings, the works I create. I....No one should strive for the impossible....but for the greatness they themselves can achieve. A stroke per day is better than none at all_."

"_That's something everyone should live by_." James complimented, looking towards the older woman with a smile, "_Encouraging words._”

_“Élisabeth…taught me that,_” she answered, and my interest peaked.

_“You teach here too?_" James continued, reaffirming my suspicion.

"_A few_. _Perhaps four girls, half the age of you but full of potential. I try to instill them with those values because for them, the world will be ever harsher and critical to their successes_."

"_Indeed...thus is the challenges of life. To live in defiance of it all is better than to not have lived at all_." James patted my shoulder, giving me the signal, "_I think our time may be up on questioning Mademoiselle Adélaïde. Again, I apologize taking time out of your day. If you can excuse us_."

"_Oh.....that's right_...." but looked to me still, and rested her elbow on her prompted hand. "_You said you had a friend who was an artist_."

"_I did, yes_," I confirmed.

"_How great was he_?" she leaned at this, trying to look at me within the hood.

"......_He was_...." I fidgeted the words mentally, "_He was the greatest artist I ever had the privilege of knowing_."

"_What was his name_?"

"......._Leonardo_."

She blinked at this, drumming her nails on her chin, "_Leonardo? Like the name, Leonardo Da Vinci_?"

"_The very same_," I honestly replied.

It flew over her head, "_My, he must have been something if you compare him to such a great mastermind_."

"_I would think you would be thoroughly surprised of his talent_," I continued.

"_Does he live around here? I'm always open to presenting my students with amazing works._"

"_I'm afraid that would be impossible. He's long gone....from here_."

"_Oh....well that's a shame_," she frowned.

"_It is, but life goes on_," I said. "_If you'll excuse us, we must step outside_."

"_Of course, carry on_," she replied, and turned her back to us. I gave James a knowing look, and we both parted from her field of hearing, closing the studio door behind us.

"What did you find?"

"She recently finished a painting, perhaps a day or two ago." James explained, laying his hand out as if it were right next to him, "The oil still hadn't finished drying and yet she had it hanging on the wall. It seemed a bit...rushed if you asked me."

"And what else?"

"The layer of oil she had painted on it was normal, much like the others that were in the hall....the one she showed you wasn't."

I rubbed my chin at this, narrowing my eyes, "Hmmm....Do you still find it odd? Are you still unsure about her involvement in this?"

"I'm...a bit surer now then I was before." James admitted with a nod, "She did take it...but I don't think it was for ill-intentions as what might be perceived."

“Okay....which brings me to my next question...” I crossed my arms, inclining my head, “Where’s the painting?”

"Isn't it simple?" James leaned against the wall, "It's_ in_ that painting she showed you."

My pupils sharpened, "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

".....Go retrieve the others, and _Élisabeth_. I'll distract her and make sure she doesn't leave. I trust you." James took his leave, pacing himself hurriedly down the corridor and cutting around the bend.

I reentered the studio soundlessly, closing the door with a soft thud and earning _Adélaïde_’s attention. She paused at the middle of the room, holding a hand to her chest.

“Did you forget something?”

I slowly made my way across, and this…somewhat alarmed her. Her eye’s darted back and forth between the door and me, her feet somewhat shuffling to bypass me. I blocked her way, and stood right in front of her, the new painting on her right, it being on my left.

I stretched an arm out, and leisurely did my fingers grip onto the edge of the thick material, “_You’re a pretty girl. But you know what…you’re not pretty good at lying_.”

"_What are you referring to_?" She demanded, her face reddening as she turned rigid, "_I've told you all I know already, why can't you just accept that and move on_?"

“_David confirmed he was at the café….that you went to yesterday morning. And I asked you if you recognized anyone while you were there_…” I bluffed, and lowered my voice, “_And yet, you told me otherwise; if he’s not lying to me….what does that make you?_”

"_Clearly the wrong suspect_," _Adélaïde_ clutched the hem of her dress, "_The café is fairly large, I'm not supposed to keep track of every grown man that comes in and out of there. I have my own life that I have to be responsible for and it certainly doesn't revolve around my competitions_."

“_Where does that put_ _Élisabeth then?_” I angled, tilting my head. “_Oddly enough you had so much to say about David….and yet you put her in this inspirational stage. Like…she means something to you_.” _Adélaïde_ said nothing, instead staring with scrutiny.

She guarded her chest and pointed her chin up towards me, "_I may put her on a pedestal for we are only women in a world run by men, but make no mistake, she is still my competition_."

“_And now your competition is leaving_,” I craned my head, and I gripped the back of my hood, slowly pulling it back to reveal my red locks, and the golden irises that sharpened down to her. “_What good is life without having your drive for it_? _What good will it be without_ _Élisabeth?_”

Her eyes widened at the sight, taking a shaky step back as her arms drew to her side. Stiff and insecure, her eyes darting around the space of the room. It was with a brief dart to her painting that she met my eyes.

“_How dare you_."

“_You don’t deny it_,” my eyes glided, and they landed on her canvas. “…._It’s there, isn’t it_?” She said nothing, but her reddened cheeks gave it away.

My finger tapped against the corner, and the movement was quick and precise; my elongated claw cut through the cloth without a fight. It flapped downward, and beneath it-

“_Clever_.”

-was the portrait painting of a mother embracing her daughter. _Adélaïde_ exhaled, but said nothing.

“Have a good day, Miss _Adélaïde_,” I enunciated in English.

I took a step back, fixing my hood while we maintained eye contact. A second later, the door of the studio burst open, and hurrying inside were the men, _Élisabeth_ herself, and two guards of the building.

“Oh…” James paused, the entire group parting to surround the reveal.

“Our work here is done,” I announced, cutting in between. “Let us be on our way.”

"She wasn't wrong..."

"What?"

We set course to the Brotherhood headquarters, the orange sunset basking in the entirety of Paris in its hold. Soon the riots would commence, and it was best to depart away from the chaos. Yet, in the face of such lunacy, James always found a way to bring a light message to everything we did.

"_Adélaïde_ had mentioned that _Élisabeth_ could've painted another self-portrait just as easily...and she had apparently." James hummed thoughtfully, wide in his step, "Apparently her husband had admitted to Clement that there was another painting she had done about three years prior. No wonder why _Adélaïde_ was insistent on keeping at least one of them...shame really."

"Hmm...this was nothing but some wild chase. Good news is, it's over," I crossed my arms, judgingly staring at the trio who walked ahead of us. Stephen none too shy to wrap his arm around Arno’s shoulders, then both of them greeting the semi-grown kitten Clement had brought long ago.

James made a sound of agreement, his eyes sliding over to me, "If I may be so bold...”

“You might as well ask.”

“…You mentioned earlier you knew an artist...?"

"I did," I quietly replied. "A long time ago."

"You've hardly mentioned your past before...it had me curious," James chose his words carefully, the sound of our boots creating soft ripples into the air, "Did he study here in France...or perchance in Italy?"

"....." My eyes stayed straight, "Tuscany, yes."

James slowly bopped his head, accepting the answer, "He must have had...a good inspiration for him to learn from."

"Talent and dedication are two different things, James; my friend had both, but he remained humble and grounded in his achievements…..Much like _Élisabeth_, I daresay,” I sighed.

"The sort of mentality that creates greatness then." James offered a thin smile, "Now, if only our little team can muster a similar dedication to the talent they show promise of."

“Bold of you to assume.”

“Assume what?” he arched a brow.

“..Our..?” I gave him a look. James didn’t falter, and his smile furthered. “....Hmph. That’s the question, isn’t it?”

"It is indeed." James allowed the teasing moment to continue, taking a step ahead to walk backwards in front of me, "You _did _say earlier that you _trusted_ us sooooo I can only presume we'll be having a steady course ahead.”

"Okay, now you're assuming too boldly-" I tried to hide the humor bubbling in my throat. "Don't you dare smile like that at me, James."

"Don't have faith in _our_ skills???"

"_James_." James's hand muffled over his laughter, trying not to draw the others’ attention. "Control yourself," I rolled my eyes. "You're unbelievable. How did I even get stuck with you?"

He chuckled, walking alongside me again, "I suppose instincts had something to do with it.”.

"Instincts? Then they've been contradictory from the beginning if that's the case," I shook my head, letting the feeling settle. "I'm unsure about the Dorian boy."

"A bit...hasty and quick to judge...." James hummed thoughtfully, "But with the right guidance I think he'd make a fine assassin."

"Now you're speaking the impossible," I gave him a look, "Unless your hunch says otherwise. You really think he can reach that high?"

"I think he'll have to face many hurdles and a lot of inner demons to get to that point..." James replied with a steady expression, "No one really starts off with greatness in hand, sometimes they have to learn it through trial and errors."

"Then you must have a lot of faith.” I scoffed, and gave him one last look, “You better have enough for the both of us."

"I'm sure I can muster something up."


	9. It's Just Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there. It's good to see you again. New chapter? You bet.
> 
> The last chapter kinda took a lot of effort out of me, so I did what I could with the time I had for this one (I've been kinda overloaded at work, and I haven't been able to sleep that well for the past week. I'm feeling a bit groggy now but here we are, with my stubborn dedication to move this story along. 
> 
> My hope is that I'm feeding crumbs rather than flat out writing what's on Elysia's mind, and what that entails with the relationships she has with everyone else. Also, Shay isn't too far behind....
> 
> Enjoy and take care guys, until next month, peace.
> 
> -Keys

_A familiar bar. In a familiar place._

_A certain place, from long, long…long ago. _

_“So why are you being soft on them?”_

_I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. _

_It had been so long since I had seen them._

_Since I’ve truly seen someone._

_“They’re just your students, Elysia.”_

_The air hazed, and my center of gravity tilted as if the barstool I sat on teetered with its mishappen legs. _

_Like it would fall any second, and take me down with it._

_I had fallen so hard before._

_“You’re wrong,” my words didn’t make a sound, but I knew they were heard, “I’m not soft.” _

_“Really?” his shoulders were exaggeratedly hunched over, a common posture he succumbed himself to especially at any tavern we went to. “What do you call that then?”_

_When James is there, always. _

_The way Stephen calls me Red. _

_When Clement brings his kitten. _

_When Arno…when he-_

** **

** _You’re going to get them killed, you know that right?_ **

_“They’re human.”_

_He looked unimpressed as usual, “You put yourself on a pedestal.”_

_“I’m not sure what you mean,” I try not to sound offended._

_“You’re not better than them; you’re no better than a human.”_

_My reply was sharp, “I never said I was.”_

_“Then what are you trying to say for yourself?” _

_He was always like this, persisting. _

_Trying to get a reaction out of me. _

_Something told me he always liked that, about our relationship._

_My face prickled, “I killed them all.”_

_“That still doesn’t explain who you are.”_

_“I didn’t choose wisely,” I confessed, and felt the hot burn of metal sink itself into my wrist, marking my flesh. And when I looked down at it, I saw the incrimination of a drawn, wicked smile. Where the Twilight leaked, and a hidden, malignant giggle faded._

_Y__̶̱̞̠̼̈̾__o__̷͕̞̈̎̚__u__̵̘̦̆__̣__’__̵͕̟̗͙͊͆̽̕__v__̵͑__̣__̳__̣e__̴̍̏__̃__̠͇_ _̷̡͚̱̓̂__m__̶̛͚̑̆__e__̶̱̖̄̇̕__t__̸̯̙̭̋̈́̽_ _̴͌__́__̟̪̫̩͝__a__̶̺̍͗͛͆_ _̴̨̠͎͂̋̕__t__̶̡̫̰̱͌̑̔__e__̵̹̝̇̒__r__̵̎̊__̃__͖̤̥̩__r__̵̖̭̮͙̌̈́__i__̷͐̏__̉__̧̝̭__b__̴̹͎͂̄̅̽__l__̷͍̟͂__e__̴̬͐̑͌̍_ _̷̗̘̩̬̿__f__̷͊__́__̨͇͜__a__̵̧̟̭͂__t__̷__̃__̮͖̹͐͆̿__e__̵͎̟̽͆__,__̶̙͇̬͕̑_ _̵̿͝__̀__̤̩͜__h__̵̨̱̑̈́ͅ__a__̸̰͖̿ͅ__v__̴̡̹̼͗__e__̶̜̰̈́̋̏__n__̴̜̮̖̱̔__’__̶̟̦̼͊̽̋͝__t__̴̡͎̓̎͘_ _̶̭̗̭̹̿__y__̴̲̦̩͍̈́__o__̶̟͠__u__̴͖͎̒͠__?__̷͇̹̂̂̆̓_

_He kept pushing, “Choices are not a one-time deal. They’re infinite; every day is a choice.”_

_“Just shut up.”_

_He scoffed, and slammed his palm against the counter, nearly shoving his face right against mine, “You can’t silence me like your other voices.” He smelled of baby blooms, when the sun first kisses the wet tulips of the Spring. And when they pry open, the pollen bud weeps its golden tears, and it flies off into the dawn. _

_“You’re dead.”_

_He scoffed at this, and when I turned to look at him-_

….What the hell.

I inspected the bedpost curtain being carried by the breeze. It danced above my face, and the mattress beneath me creaked with the slightest movement. The balcony door had been left slightly ajar, allowing the streaks of light to percolate through the swaying drapes. The sound of lowered footsteps and chatter from the streets outside brought a soft ambiance in the air.

It was another day….but it was a different dream.

I adjusted my hip to lay on its side, my flesh shivering from the unusual textures of the bed (perhaps from the fact that I hardly slept on it). I dragged my legs over the heavy covers, my bare feet touching the wooden floor where the sharpness of the morning’s fog stung my toes. My hair slid and hung from my bowing head, revealing the etched lines of dark ruby protruding. The lines poured out like a disruptive bloom and down to the middle of my back where a symbol lay, but what it was, I couldn’t say; I never had the chance to look at it, but something deep inside told me it was there.

Languidly I stood to fetch the trousers that were clumsily hooked over the wooden rail near the dresser. I pulled the hem of it to tuck in my blouse’s ends, and then proceeded to dress my feet into their usual, abused boots. Next came the vest and hooded jacket to hide away my mane-

_Knock knock knock knock_ hurriedly sounded.

A pair of footsteps awaited, but the voice was high and quick, “_Madame_ Elysia?” It was the younger servant of the manor, Bridgette. I strode over in quick steps. When I opened it, I didn’t have time to respond- “_There’s a meeting downstairs. Monsieur Mathias has news about the manor_,” she tucked her bang behind her ear, almond eyes darting everywhere but my direct look. She clutched her cleaning rag between her light-colored hands, twisting it nervously that her knuckles turned to a heated white. “_Says it’s important_.”

Her body language didn’t bode well.

“_Then let us go_,” I replied, and closed the door behind me. We strode down the hallway, but before we could reach the first step of the spiraling staircase, I already made out Charlotte’s battling voice-

“Please reconsider, Mathias-“

“What about-“

“No more excuses, we can’t afford anymore,” the accountant sounded exceptionally exhausted this morning. I tugged my sleeve to sheathe the blade properly on my wrist, then walked through the small entryway leading inside the chamber while Bridgette stayed close behind.

All the inhabitants of the manor were on their feet around the arranged desks, forming a long table of sorts to accommodate everyone’s field of vision to one another. All eyes pointedly stared at the accountant who was at the end of the row, cleaning his spectacles on a spare handkerchief. On the table were two suitcases, both crammed to the brim of exploding. Once he was done, he adjusted his glasses.

“I’ve done all I can for this manor, and I suggest you all find a new residence before the end of the week,” Mathias replied, then turned his head to me, “Morning, Elysia.”

I strode up to him, “What’s going on?”

“The government-“

“Mathias is going to let them take the deed!” Charlotte exhaled out in frustration. Her makeup hadn’t been done yet, revealing the trueness of her expression; worried and aged as dark concaves inhabited her eyes. Her hair was frizzled, undone and plentiful on top of her head. The dress was hastily put on from the strings undone on the backside of it, the shoulder straps hanging over her arms where her freckled shoulders were bare. “Without it, this manor, it-“

“It was out of my hands, Elysia,” Mathias held up his palms defensively, and sighed. “There was nothing I could do; the manor will be confiscated and all its assets. It was approved by Mirabeau as well.”

If that were the case….he must’ve known the financial struggle the manor was going through; there was no way he couldn’t have known. He was the one who provided the location, bought the land and gave the responsibility to Charlotte….but whatever fund we had been receiving in the beginning was long gone.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“I sent an urgent letter, to ask for aid, an extension of some sort. _Any_. It was denied,” Mathias expelled out a frustrated sigh, but said nothing more.

Did Mirabeau…do it willingly? Were his hands tied as much as ours?

Charlotte was hunched over her seat, her face buried into her folded arms where she wept silently. Bridgette stood beside the elder maid, Marceline who both said nothing, staring at the distraught owner with no words of comfort to provide because they too realized the predicament this placed on their livelihoods. Grisier however, took initiative to stand beside Charlotte and brushed her back soothingly in order to restore her to her former glory.

“We’ll think of something; have faith,” he replied, but even then, I felt the strain in his tone.

_“Why did this happen?”_

My lips thinned.

_“Why did this happen to me? To us?”_

I looked over to Charlotte who dug her fingers into her hair, trying to keep herself collected.

_“They’re all dead! My poor papa…and my momma. My sister, my nephew. I have nothing left.”_

“How much do we owe?” I cleared my throat, clutching the back of a chair.

** _How will you set this right?_ **

“Even if we repaid our debt, it’s the matter of being unable to continue funding this operation in the disarray state is in.” Mathias rubbed his temples in painful circles, his glasses themselves teetering from falling from his long face, “We won’t make profit if we continue in the path we’ve been taking. Ever since Mirabeau moved his funding to other locations, we’ve…..we’re at our limits.”

“Just….do what you can right now,” I opted instead, but he simply shook his head, bellowing out an exhausted breath.

"I've done _all_ I can and I've exhausted _all _our power." Mathias furthered, his patience running thin of my impossible request, "Unless you can procure something within the week, the bank _will_ retake the building."

Just when I thought things couldn’t get more complicated-

“Elysiaaaaa, you here?”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head.

“God, what now-“

The slender, obnoxious assassin stepped in, though when Arno Dorian got midway of the café, he felt the tonal shift of the atmosphere. His eyes gazed over the group; he lifted one finger up to properly address the situation, but that didn’t really help when he had no clue what it actually was.

“….Did I….interrupt something?“ he decided after his short, internal battle.

“Oh, Arno!” Charlotte perked her head up when she recognized the voice. She quickly rubbed her eyes off and gave a weak smile, “Dear boy, it’s you!”

The young male smiled, though it faltered as he got closer and saw she had been crying, “Is everything…oka-ACK-”

My hand found his face with his hood, and without missing a beat did I drag him outside, wrapping my arm around his neck to solidify his exit.

“Can’t..breathe-“ he struggled, and stumbled on his heels when I let go.

“Why are you here, boy?” I leaned over with narrowed eyes, grabbing him by the shoulder.

Arno took a moment, as if his mind wandered to a repressed memory.

_“Where’s Elysia?”_

_“She does have days off, you know.”_

_“……….Huh. Then I suppose I should….get going.”_

_“What are you up to, Problematic Brother?”_

_“Nothing, nothing of the sort.”_

_“….Devons nous le croire?”_

_“I don’t want to know-“_

_“I do!”_

_“Stephen.”_

“No reason,” he quipped, blinking innocently.

I arched a brow, “…..You’re a horrible liar.” Ugh.

"I don't expect you to believe me, but here I am." His eyes scanned behind me. I followed, as we both viewed Mathias address the café members once again, and Charlotte’s demeanor falling at every word quiet sentence he expelled. Grisier crossed his arms, clearly frustrated of the circumstances, though his eye wandered more or less where I had taken Arno with me.

“We’re not meeting today,” I changed the subject. Or tried to.

“That seems like a waste of a day, especially when papa Bellac finds out-“ I swiftly jerked my head to him, and he reworded his sentence with a wagging finger,”-IF he finds out, that is.”

“You best be on your way, and occupy yourself with something else, like taking a pair of keys properly,” I swiped my arm toward the exit of the courtyard, jerking my head the same way to emphasize its location. Arno’s gloved hand suddenly latched out, and held me. I stared at his palm, then back up to him, “_What_.”

“Okay, okay…..it appears we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and I wanted to prove myself and show you I’m better than that,” he confessed, and let go of his grip before I slapped his hand away. “I wanted to see if I could do a mission….but I see that you’re all in a….grim mood. Maybe I can help?” His tone lightened up at this.

“It’s none of your concern-“

“The café is going to close.” Beside walked out Grisier, his arms crossed and clearly avoiding the solid stare I presented to him. He addressed Arno properly, frowning slightly of the reveal, “He might as well know, before he shows up to an empty manor next time.”

"...You're joking," Arno's attitude fell anything playful, his mouth thinning into a soft scowl.

“No, nothing to joke about,” Grisier smoothly procured his opposite shoulder, and led him back inside the café. I trailed like a leopard, attempting to find some excuse to get rid of him before he did something regretful. “It’s the honest truth, coming from an honest man myself. We’re in bad shape when it comes to business, and this is truly the end of her.” He swept his limb across, displaying the empty stage where the cobwebs riddled the wooden set of the crafted, illustrated forest.

"What happened? Hasn't the cafe been making anything?" Arno answered, but when his eyes traveled across the quarters, the brief memory of his first visit replayed across his eyes and truly saw what it was; nothing had changed since then.

"From the brief time you had known us….no, we had not and it is unlikely we will unless something changes," Grisier sighed, and let go of the assassin to comfort Charlotte’s shoulders again. She sniffed into another handkerchief, both the maids sitting idly by as Mathias watched, unsure of where this conversation was going.

Arno quirked his lip, the words in his head jumbling to make a sentence, "Well….what happens if we find another way to bring profit? Perhaps renovating the building could attract others or to partner with others-"

"With what _money_?" Mathias threw his free arm across to indicate the empty space, "It's like speaking in circles with you all. In the end--it comes to money that we simply do not have."

And then.

"....But I know someone that does," Arno answered in the silence that presented. Somber eyes drew slowly upwards, watching the young man rub his chin, and nodding in reassurance.

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there-“ I held out my hand, exhaling and trying my damn hardest not to rip his lung out at the very moment, “I **strongly** suggest you stay out of personal affairs.”

He abruptly chuckled lowly, and spun on his heel to look at me from the shadows of his cowl where his honey eyes glittered in mischief, "Now see, if you were actually someone I respected, this would be a different conversation all together. But since we haven't reached that level yet..." Arno clicked his tongue, "I don't have to exactly listen to you, per say."

Grisier’s jaw dropped, a huff of air expelling out between his clamped fingers as Mathias stared dumbfounded.

_Gut this boy._

“...What the hell did you just say to me- ARNO!!” He was already bolting, and dodged my swiping hand. He fled outside.

“Oh my god-“

“Run, boy, run!”

“GET BACK HERE, DORIAN!” I gave chase and skidded to a halt on the cobblestone street. The sound of sliding rope sung above, and I glared to the rooftop he stood on with the help of a cut line. He waved briskly before turning rapidly, his coat flapping behind him. “_You little bastard_!”

I dashed up the side wall in the closest, thin alleyway provided to me, the gawking pedestrians swiftly flailing away at my rapid movement. Once I reached the wooden roof did my claw swipe down the edge, cutting away at the gravel and timber. There, I saw his body flying half a mile away-

“DORIAN!” I hissed, and my body rocketed forward in incomprehensible speed that I tried so hard to keep at bay. Just when I thought I had caught up, one leap downwards was all it took and Arno was gone, concealed in the sea of citizens.

“_Hey_!”

“_Watch where you’re going_!”

There.

I kept up pace, leaping across the extending balconies and scaffoldings of reconstructing buildings. The few trees in-between the sectors of the street provided further reach for me to leap across the large gaps, as well as the stationed lamps that towered over the oblivious pedestrians below. Where the hell was he goin-

**Oh no.**

I hurried my stride, zipping over alleys and chimneys to minimize our distance. I clung to the side of the next building, and swung my body around to face the wall. My claws dug into the gravel, and down I slid with controlled speed. I touched base on the ground dangerously silent, and cut around the bend to finally be behind Arno who ran with all his goddamn might-

“Get back here!”

He was racing to Orfeo’s cafe.

He swung past a cart, his nimble fingers hooking at some band that had the horses riling in retort and nearly toppled the carriage to its side. It was with one last look did he offer a cheeky grin and held a bag of loose change...and dropped it all over the ground.

"It's for the greater gooooooooood!" he called out.

FUCKING-

The clutter of nearby beggars SWARMED the very spot I stood on, threatening to topple me off my footing-

"**DORIAN**!" I moved myself while at the same time, trying not to dig my hands into any person's throat and chest by mere instinct. The hot air pulsed eagerly, and finally, with the little patience I had left, I slammed several bodies out of my way; I cut across the air with what was allowed for human-mental capacity. The door of the unsuspecting shop swung opened, and the second Arno stepped in-

My eyes pulsed, displaying the cat-eye in full force that I made out the stitches on his robe, and the sweat that hid beneath his hood and frazzled locks.

"You're dead-" my teeth snarled, and my hands purchased the back of his neck.

“Whooooa!” In a slam did his chest meet an occupied table, the couple sitting there screaming of our aggressive interruption. They scrambled out, leaving their half-full teas and munched biscuits abandoned, the other buyers inside were rendered absolutely confused.

"You've got some FUCKING nerve," I hissed, holding Arno easily down with one arm.

"Now, now, Elysia, this can all be talked through--" Arno strained, trying to regain his balance as the table staggered to not fall.

"_What the hell is all that_\--" The back door rammed open, Orfeo's eyes falling instantly on us in a puzzled state. The gears in his eyes shifted, fixing the puzzle into one of pure annoyance, releasing a sigh to go with it.

"Ah! Just the man I wanted to see--" Arno belted out, "_Elysia_ and I have a proposition deal for you."

"Stop _talking_."

"I'm just trying to do what's right-"

"That's not your call-"

"_Will the two of you get out of the damn shop_!" Orfeo bellowed, smashing his fist against the table, and pointing the other at our direction. "_Take it outside_!"

"Gladly-" I didn't even wait, and proceeded to drag Arno behind me. He flailed in my grasp, eyes still intent on Orfeo.

"No wait-WAIT!" Arno seized the frame of the doorway, sticking his leg inside to lock himself briefly in place, "I'll get straight to the point, we're looking for anewbusiness venture-- a café that's opened to the publicpastyoursanddrivescrowds to a stage well into the night! Think about it--it’s a good idea--OW! YOUR NAILS--!"

Just when I was about to yank him outside-

“Do I dare implore what this is about?”

Giselle paused herself beside me, staring at the clinging disgrace I had hold of, then raised her eyes to me. The back of my neck flamed, and all motive halted when she inspected Arno’s slow turn to her, and the nervous smile that expelled from his…..predicament.

I ceased in my force, and let go of Arno...and instead gripped my face in my hand, inhaling whatever patience I could muster to not launch him across the street.

Arno fixed his scarf and the front of his coat, clearing his throat as he bowed his head down to the ever-patient Giselle before facing her properly, "Apologies _mademoiselle_, we didn't mean to block the way for you."

"By no means are you blocking the way for me," Giselle studied my repressed state, lifting her attention to the boy next, "But I would like to ask that you would stop frightening what remains of our customers."

Arno found himself trying to come up with an argument but when he looked back into the confides of the café, it was left bare and abandoned. Orfeo held a weighted, threatening stare against his being, and Arno thought best to confront the one person speaking to him properly instead, "My...apologies but I've come with a proposal that might be beneficial to you if you're interested in hearing."

"A proposal?" She ignored Orfeo's _NO_ that shot from the inside, folding her wallet to her front, her head tilted with interest, "Now that _is_ curious...and here I thought you weren't in the business of hospitality, Elysia." The woman smiled playfully to me, though I said nothing and merely rested my hands on my hips, avoiding her glance. "Please, come inside, I'll hear what you have to say."

The fire that imploded inside my very skull was incomparable, and it doubled when Arno gave me a back look, and grinned with a secured nod. My eyes literally lit aflame with my hair.

They took a seat at the nearest table as I awaited by the door. Orfeo approached with scolding purpose, crossing his arms firmly on his chest, his black coals for eyes awaiting to burst with a single match.

“_What_?” I enunciated, exasperated.

"What the hell does that kid of yours think he's doing?" Orfeo demanded, shoulders huffed up, "You bring him here once and now he thinks he can make business deals?"

“First off-“ I sliced my hand across the air, pointing accusingly at him, “he’s not my kid. Second of all, I tried to stop him and third, I’m against any business deal he has to offer. Because frankly, we don’t need help.”

I shouldn’t have said that.

His lecturing tone froze….and this evolving wickedness took hold of his face, in his very orbs. As if he were holding the very essence of it with a knife in hand.

"_OH_."

“Why are you looking at me like that?" my neck craned, avoiding his leaning face.

“_You_ don't need any help, huh? Doesn't that sound _strangely_ familiar?” There it was, the red threads in his eyes, and how they leeched out like crimson poison in dark water. “It's like karma came back for you."

I stood my ground, “Shut up, Orfeo-”

He threw his head back, and the solid chuckle that rung out dug into my ears.

“Do you want the kid here or not?? Then I suggest you ENCOURAGE your business partner to think otherwise,” I whispered with heated defiance.

"Actually…” he grinned maliciously at me, “I think I'm going to take my chance with listening now.”

Oh fuck no.

“You can’t be serious-“ my jaw dropped, and the evil grin that enraptured Orfeo’s face was enough to cake mine with flames. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

The devilish smile broadened when he offered a brief gaze, fully aware of his actions, of what _this _meant, "My lips are sealed." Orfeo drew a line against his upper lip, keeping his mouth shut and focusing his attention over to Arno. In the silence, Arno's explanation rung uninterrupted, only with the brief offering of sweets from Jacques as he greeted his mother and Arno with a bold smile. Maduka was also present, offered his arm to keep the back door of the kitchen open to allow the younger girl named Oya to peek out to see what the commotion was about.

Arno briefly described Charlotte’s situation at hand, arms gesturing as he recounted the story in his own words. While some of the details were clearly fabricated or to his own understanding (because clearly I don’t remember him cradling Charlotte at any point), it seemed Giselle listened carefully to what he had to say as her fingernails traced the surface of the table in gentle circles, making my skin shiver from how clearly I managed to hear it. When Arno finally paused, reaching the conclusion of his story, Giselle turned to my direction.

"Is this true, Elysia?" she questioned with the upmost integrity.

I held my hand out, and I honestly...laughed. I fucking laughed.

“The boy is in no place or order to even suggest making a business deal on behalf of an entire café staff that has no idea what this...deal entails,” I think I was amused to hide the unchecked ire threatening to combust inside me.

Giselle studied me carefully, her chin tilting slightly down as she glanced over to Arno then back at me. Then, she smiled curtly, standing up a moment after, "I'm certain you do. I have no doubt in your skills," and began walking to the doorway. There her eyes gazed over, inspecting me briefly before heading outside.

"Mama?" Jacques piped right behind her, holding onto the doorframe to steady himself, “_Where are you going_?”

"_I'm merely going to get some air...venture out towards Notre Dame. I think I'm interested in having some coffee_."

Jacques immediately grinned at the implication, Oya coming from behind the counter to stare out where Giselle had left, “_Let’s follow_!” Jacques wasted no time in holding her hand and excitedly dragged her with him to where his mother had disappeared to.

“_S-Slow down, Jaq_!” she picked up her long skirt to allow her boots to catch up.

“Oya,” Maduka driven on instincts went after the two as he tossed his spare rag aside, making it land on the table closest to the exit. That left Arno, Orfeo and me.

"Well..." Orfeo whistled, motioning himself to the door and jingling his keys in hand, "Can you both get out so I can see where this leads?"

No.

It’s not possible.

I shot my burning glare toward Arno who leaned his head back, his back literally arching from how close I had gotten.

“I-“

“_I’m going to pike your head on a lance_,” I snarled out, my pupils sharpening as the fangs protruded out my mouth. Arno remained oblivious, clearly blinded from the darkness of my hood.

“That would...be bad, especially for dear ol’ Bellac who awaits my safe return soon.” He patted my shoulder, and thumbed to the door, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” And he walked out.

I inhaled shakily, ignoring the thousands of voices in my head...and stalked. But I didn’t go far until-

“Hey.” Orfeo had shut the café with lock and key, following closely in step; it was clear to see that the immortal obviously enjoyed watching a boy being steps away from death. Arno kept brisk in his stride, hurriedly heading to walk alongside Maduka who stared at him briefly before setting his eyes ahead, targeting Jacques who still held onto the other teen’s palm.

“_WHAT_,” I exhaled softly, pinching the bridge of my nose. My eyes darted to the corners, seeing Orfeo treacherously smirking, and something about it tethered to my throat.

"A little upset this morning, aren't we?" he teased.

“Stop,” I huffed, Arno sensing my glued eyes to his back, turned, and smiled with a small wave. Maduka exchanged his glance, and walked a bit faster to avoid being affiliated, but the young man was right beside him trying to start a conversation. “Out of all the things that could’ve happened today….”

Orfeo asked, "Be honest, would you have been without a place or going out to kill someone for a deed or two?"

“Whether there would’ve been a place or not was not up to me,” I replied, rolling my eyes and discontinuing my stride, “I did all that was asked of me. That’s it.”

"Which was?"

“…Why do you care,” I scoffed, pushing against his shoulder as I continued my predatory pursuit.

Orfeo found himself rolling his eyes, swiping at his shoulder as he trailed, "I rather you don't end up living at my bakery and working full time there because of whatever issues you have-"

I held out my palm, the flat end signaling Orfeo to halt and look directly at me, “Okay, if you actually _think _I would ever go live with _you_\- that’s rich,” I snorted out, giving him an incredulous look.

And he returned it with one of his own, gazing intently and clearly offended somewhat. He didn't hold any playful mannerism, only studying my features before he directed his focus elsewhere. After a moment did he scoff, shaking his head, "Better for me then, I won't have to worry about the bread going missing in the morning."

“Then I’m sure Jacques can take care of himself,” I answered the same, snapping my hand down. “Consider this the end of my services.”

His mouth thinned, "Fine by me."

The further we walked quietly through Paris’ street did I sense the dread; if Arno did manage to have convinced Giselle, and she saw this potential that the shop had, it was undoubted that she would jump at the chance regardless of Orfeo or Pierre’s involvement; she was that kind of woman to take charge. I admired that, but did it have to be so suddenly with…this, all of this?

I didn’t like my chances, of being…stuck with something I wasn’t able to change. Of being stuck with added responsibility I could have avoided.

** _Yet, why did you stick around?_ **

I bit my lip, and somehow every step I took heaved with weighted guilt; the cervices and potholes of the street deepened in depth, and I was abruptly aware of how far apart everyone was. Ahead Jacques and Oya raced, but they kept in view of Maduka who remained a comfortable distance away. He would fiddle with his cuffed sleeves a lot, and would occasionally answer Arno’s persistent questions with a mere nod or shake of his head. Arno, in turn, was the most relaxed in his posture, his arms swinging to and fro in accomplished strides, not even bothered of my tired glare yards away.

And now, Orfeo strode in silence, and something about him…being quiet troubled me. Whatever…..association we built prior…

** _You upset him._ **

The dark wing along his back was in full view, and I saw it visibly drag along the ground. Its smog wavered along his feet, and it climbed to create this trailing effect behind him with each step he took. As if his very existence dragged itself through whatever bullshit it was going to go through. And, despite our distance, I could still catch wind of the damp smell of it before.

_Wouldn't you want more after what you had?_

I clamped my mouth shut, but the sweat along my digits collected. I rubbed my palms against my hips, the soft breeze tickling my flesh there.

Almost as if this had happened before.

I couldn’t.

I can’t.

Not again.

It was no surprise to find Giselle was indeed at the café theatre, speaking pleasantries with a candid Charlotte as they stood near the heart of the room; her emerald eyes lit up when the rest of us walked in.

"I see you two have acquainted yourselves already," Arno remarked as Giselle smiled softly.

The brunette woman bowed her head in agreement, "You can say that."

“Arno, how do you know these lovely people?” Charlotte asked as she held her chest, her beam undeniably there. “_Please please, make yourselves at home_.”

This prompted the entire hoard within the ghostlike manor to come out of their daily errands, and soon everyone was meeting in the center of the café just as they did this morning. Bridgette and Marceline cleared the tables, and soon poured the tea and coffee that was requested from Charlotte.

Giselle seated herself with everyone else while Orfeo paced himself around the inside of the theater space, taking a small sip of his mug while I watched him. Grisier positioned himself behind Charlotte, holding onto the frame of her chair as he smiled courteously at the invited guests. The two maids finished pouring everyone a drink and they too took a seat on Charlotte’s left side. Mathias’ presence was requested, and we all were awaiting his arrival from his office.

“_This place is huge_!” Jacques fidgeted in his seat, occasionally nudging Oya as he pointed at some other part of the chamber they hadn’t seen yet. She kept herself proper, but followed his lead, nodding here and there when he whispered something.

“_Heh, he’s something isn’t he_,” Charlotte giggled, and waved to both him and Oya as they looked her way.

“_Would you both like to have a look around_?” Grisier smiled, and he purposely cupped his mouth at this, leaning down to Jacques’ size, “_There’s a trophy room upstairs_.”

"_Is it a collectible trophy room_\--" Jacques grinned and Orfeo couldn't whirl faster at the sound of it.

"Jaq--" Orfeo had to refrain from making a scene, "_Not now, behave_."

"_Aw, I thought it was like Pierre's trophy room, you always make fun of it_."

"_Another story for another day_," Orfeo lifted his gaze to Maduka, the stoic man merely offering a stern nod to him. He sighed, but gave in, "_You two should run along now, give us the full inspection we need_."

"_Oui, oui moi capitaine_." The two stood up, Grisier chuckling at Jaq’s small salute when he got up. Bridgette was called in tow, and she hurriedly stumbled to her feet to follow after the trio, almost tripping on the small step leading into the main foyer.

There was no force on this damn world to stop what was already speed balling down this steep ravine. I knew Charlotte, and whatever Arno graced her with, it was going to come to fruition. I crossed my arms and rested myself against a beam near the cushioned seats. When Mathias finally approached, he served himself his coffee after he bowed his head briefly to the group. He walked over to me; his glassed eyes narrowed as he stirred the sugar in his drink.

“Who are these people, Elysia?” he lowered his tone, able to hide it well.

“….Business people, from the _Le Marais_ District,” there was no point in lying. “They own a café named _Café Muguet_ there.”

Mathias fixed his glasses, keeping his eyes meticulously on Giselle who continued striking a conversation with Charlotte (something about where she had gotten her feathered hat because it had long been a while since Giselle had worn one). Orfeo continued to walk around the room, and Mathias gazed to me, averting his eyes to his direction.

“I presume you know him….” How did he even…?

My lips tightened, “I do.”

“From?” I don’t like how he asked me that.

“…Some time ago,” I quickly explained.

He studied me, “…..I see. Then….be sure to keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn’t take anything.” And he walked over to the group, and cleared his throat, “Mathias Alphonse, and I take it you are the front-runner?” He held out his hand to Giselle, who took it firmly and shook it.

"I am...the one that makes sure things go as they should, yes." Giselle offered instead with a smile, "And if I may, you are in charge of the finance here at _Café Théâtre_?"

“I am,” he took a seat beside Charlotte, resting his mug on the table, “However, Charlotte and Elysia share partnership with the manor, I merely make sure it stays running…for as long as it can.” At this news did all eyes of the _Muguet _business fleetingly look to me, Maduka in particular raising his brow. Giselle smiled thinly, undeterred by the answer and looking between the two with her hands folded on one another.

"I see. You've done a fine job in all things considered; I can only imagine these last few years haven't been easy."

“A revolution does that to any place,” Mathias took off his glasses, cleaning then with a soft rag in hand. “I can assure you the manor is well-kept and every information of every part is in documentation.” He confirmed Arno’s explanation in fuller detail, but kept it accurate this time. “Strains in finances and debt are beginning to take its toll...all we can offer, in my honest and factual opinion, is the location, and the entertainment display behind me.”

Giselle sat straight at this, her eyes studying the interior intently, ruminating. Her head bopped in gentle nods, her fingers lacing around the cup of coffee as she laughed softly. "Forgive me, I'm merely.... reminiscing from when this establishment was at the height of its popularity."

"You've dined here before?" Charlotte was quick to ask next.

"Yes. My father was very keen in knowing who was who in Paris, and this place was a repeated venture for his ambitions. He would spend countless hours here, whilst I sat at that booth over there, ignoring the drunken stupor of the politicians and poets that would take the stage," Giselle recalled.

“I imagine those conversations were…. enlightening,” Mathias didn’t look away from her. “Such influential insight being so young.”

"I was a younger woman back then; I didn't become easily swayed by their hot-blooded prattle," Giselle took a sip at this, though she held a good attitude upon it, "Even such, this building has given me many fond memories...some of which would be unfortunate if lost. So, I ask, in a room which seems somewhat divided, what _is_ the future for this establishment?"

“That depends….” Mathias held out his hands out, his long fingers fanning out to either side of him to indicate the long table, “What does this meeting entail? Is this a partnership, or is this a sale?”

"A sale is not what I intended to be the outcome." Giselle stared tersely, "A partnership is likely...but I will not go as far as extend an olive grove without more information on this matter."

“Understandable,” Mathias stood up at this, fixing his pocket watch before offering his arm out, “Then I suggest Ms. Charlotte and I show you around, and see if what we offer you in the manor is suitable to make a negotiation. Is that fair?”

"Yes." Giselle stood at this, fixing the end of her dress and looking over to the crew. It wasn't until she met Orfeo's that she offered a pointed look, "Behave." The irony. His answer was with a roll of his eyes, looking over the stage with a tilt of his head.

If only she knew what she was getting herself into.

“And you thought this was a bad idea,” Arno called from his seat, leaning himself back on it. I ignored his existence completely, pressing my knuckles to my mouth, my eyes glued to the ground in thought.

“Don’t push it,” I sounded off, rubbing my eyes. I could hear Orfeo chuckle to himself a couple of yards away, while Maduka looked at his back….eyes narrowed. Questioning. I avoided confrontation. It was after a good ten minutes that the trio came back, and the look on Giselle’s face proved the final nail in my coffin. Mathias, looking so strained before, had less furrowed lines resting on his forehead, looking content with what was shared and said.

Charlotte took the mantel this time, and smiled widely to Giselle who caught her eye, “What do you say, Madam?”

"I say there's a good chance a partnership is possible by my means." Giselle regarded with a smile, "I would just like to hear what Elysia would have to say about it." She moved the attention toward me, and I wanted nothing but to crawl underneath the nearest crate and let it crush me voluntarily to end it all.

“Whatever Charlotte and Mathias had already agreed on,” I answered blankly, not bothering to look up.

Giselle raised a brow at this, "You have nothing to add or ask upon?"

“No.”

“Elysia….” Charlotte made her way over, and halted my movement to pass her. Her green gems pleaded up to me, and I felt the lump form in the back of my throat. “Remember what we agreed on?”

“Charlotte-“ I gritted my teeth, but she didn’t falter, and she gripped my arm. Mathias tensed, his mouth firm in a line as he grabbed the nearest chair beside for balance. “This is your establishment and it was given to you and only you. If you want to pour all your savings into it or burn it to the ground- I don’t care which.”

_“What will I do? What if it comes back?”_

She shook my limb, and the exhaustion she hid so well crept in her eyes, along her face when she…always looked up to me this way, “You promised me-“

_“Then let us go, before it does.”_

“I know what I did!” I didn’t mean to yell, but I was there, and the entire chamber froze in this icy atmosphere. But despite this, against all the odds, Charlotte still hung onto me….like she did many years ago. “….I know…what I said to you,” I corrected.

_“You’ll stay with me, right?”_

She smiled lightly, but this sadness loomed, “And?”

“…………” I exhaled sharply, and my eyes avoided her, looking to the ceiling instead, “….If you think…….it’s a good idea, then…….I will follow.”

“Then, it’s settled!” Charlotte clapped her hands excitedly, her teeth gleaming for the first time in the past couple of weeks. I felt the hot streak of fire run down my neck, avoiding any gaze that dared go my way.

Giselle smiled and turned, "Orfeo?"

The baker reluctantly rubbed at his neck, sighing hotly as he looked up to the ceiling with a flat stare, "I suppose that's that then. I'll smooth it out with Pierre later...though I'm sure the extra income in due time will come to delightful terms for him."

"I have no doubts in that." Giselle smiled tenderly and looked to Mathias next, "Now the most important matter of discussion comes; may we talk in private about the matter of money this partnership is going to entail?"

“Absolutely, yes,” he signaled to Marceline who got up on her feet, fixing down her apron, “Bring us a new fresh batch of coffee, we’re going to need it.” The manor was in movement, and I mashed my fingers into my eyes yet again, this time rubbing them roughly while giving a small groan of irritation. With impeccable timing did Grisier and Bridgette come back, a dashing Jaq and Oya taking the lead. By the way his mother smiled to him, he wasted no time in cutting in-between everyone, and rushed to my side with a dangerous, bright smile.

"_So does this mean we're going to see each other more often?? Am I going to be delivering bread to you guys here?_!” he jogged in place, Oya judgingly staring at him.

“………Yup,” I sighed, unable to bring myself to even glare at him. “_I…….guess so_.”

Jacques couldn’t be contained, leaping in place, "_Yes! I wonder how this is going to work_-"

"Kid, _you're still going to be running the same job_," Orfeo approached, pressing a hand on his hip as he tilted his head down to the teen.

"_But I can be more than just a delivery boy, I can be a delivery **man**_,” he lifted both of his arms up, and motioned his clubbed hands inwards, displaying his rather lanky limbs in view.

I turned to Orfeo, and a menacing smile crossed my face, “I’m actually...going to murder you. In your sleep. I hope you know that.”

He caught my look, and the corner of his mouth lifted, eyebrows furrowed, "You can try, but you're not going to succeed."

“I beg to differ,” I took a step forward, and the closer I got, the more my Twilight sparked from the pressure, ready to overtake whatever space Orfeo occupied in the room.

"You’re not about to crush Jacques’ heart to dust and drop it all over to prove a point, now are you?” he relaxed his shoulders, and suddenly fluttered his eyelashes at me in total defiance.

The blush splattered without warning, and Orfeo’s shit-eating smirk only worsened when he saw it.

“Oh…did I touch a nerve?” he replied, and took a step toward me, his breath slightly tickling the fabric of my cowl. Without it, it would’ve been right within the confinements of my space, and he knew it. “You get so upset, when in reality, this was all your fault to begin with. And you know it.”

“Get the hell away,” I hissed spitefully.

But Orfeo wasn’t one to back down, “**Make. Me**.”

The cauldron in my chest spilled all over, and this inexplainable hotness encased my entire being. The thousands of voices banged mercilessly within my cranium…but in a strange way, they were in the farthest planes away from reach. They muted themselves out until I heard nothing but white noise, my entire focus on Orfeo and just him.

And the way his arm shifted, how dark his hair was, how the rubies in his shadow eyes concealed themselves so well that despite how hard I looked, I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t figure them out, the same way I couldn’t figure Corvus out.

“You have some nerve,” I answered back, and I was almost positive I kept making it chaotic with every answer I kept providing back. This amused him to an exceptional degree.

He didn’t waste a second, "You're the one inciting it."

“Is this what you want??” I tested, glaring right at him being only inches away. “To get on each other’s nerves endlessly?”

Orfeo kept a locked gaze, "Isn't _that_ the reason you keep coming _back_??"

This fucking.

“**Unbelievable**-“ I cut myself away and into the inner space of the café. With one swipe-

“You might’ve solved our situation there, Arno,” Grisier patted his back while Maduka stood beside.

“It’s not a problem, anything I can do it he-ALP-“ Arno was in my clutch, his arm reaching out and missing Grisier’s (who managed to step away subtly in time). “H-Hey!”

“I’m going to make you run laps until your legs fall off,” I hissed, rounding to the front of the courtyard.

“…..Well see you later, Arno!” Grisier waved off, Maduka staring off with a deadpan glance.

The midday sun baked the street with warmth, and the settlers of the city moved vigorously with their daily businesses. I was perched on top of the buttresses of _Notre Dame_, keeping my eye on the single figure that passed by yet again before huffing his way around the bend, disappearing to the sidewalk beside the cathedral.

“Again!”

“Pfht….easy! I can do….do this…all day!”

He ran more laps.

“One more!”

“I could do five!”

“Six it is!”

"You think....this is a challenge?!" Arno gasped out from the ground floor, tossing his arm out in my direction (while at the same time, a group of stationed people observed him, actually thinking he had gone mad from how many times he had run around the property because why would anyone be perched on the church’s exterior?).

I signaled with a flick of my hand, and this got a response.

"I actually ENJOY running! So take THAT!"

“He’s got a bold personality, doesn’t he?” A voice seated itself next to me, a binder of parchments set beside and weighed down with James’ coin bag, preventing from any forms of spilling out. “He’s……special.”

“If you want to call it bold,” I rested my face in my hand.

“Hey James-!”

“KEEP GOING,” I called out flatly, shooting a glower. Dorian scoffed at this, but did what he was told, and again disappeared into the bend of the church’s foundation.

"What else would you call it?"

"….I don't think stupidity is a strong enough word."

"Fair enough,” James chuckled, drumming his fingers on his bent knee, "You weren't this stressed since Stephen joined; I think Clement got you too soft on your expectations."

"That's because Clement actually listens to me, unlike how you and Stephen were," I countered, tapping my digit against his chest. "Finding 'better' alternatives to our missions, and then speaking out of turn every chance you could. You both grew notorious for that, British assassin."

"You flatter me." James scoffed playfully, turning his attention fully to me, "I think it should be applauded for finding different methods then merely sticking to the status quo."

"See, it's showing again," I rolled my eyes. "So justified in everything you do. Yet, you come to the most chaotic country."

"I had....minimal choices in where I could affiliate myself with. Paris is the closest and ironically more unified Brotherhood there is."

"Really?" I stared flatly.

James hummed thoughtfully, "It did help that I also know French."

"Lucky you then," I answered in the same tone. "Keep at it, and you'll be in charge in no time."

"You know that's not what I want," James rebutted. His gaze fell on Arno rounding the front of the church, his hood clipping around the bend before he disappeared again.

“…I was joking.”

"Oh. Heh, my apologies, Elysia. I think I've gotten a tad bit over used to you being so serious at times."

“That’s….hmmm…” I kept my eye leveled to the street below, “I suppose I’m….that’s understandable, you’re correct.”

"Still, that was a tad rude of me to make that implication." James gave a small smile, "You do have your funny moments....such as now."

“What…you think I’m funny?” I shook my head, sighing silently, “That’s a stretch.”

"Perhaps...but it is refreshing compared to the more rigid mentors." James drummed his fingers against his knees, "I think the only other one that has a sense of humor is Beylier."

“…You’re not wrong.” I hummed in thought, “He’s the one who introduced me to the Parisian Brotherhood, at the time.”

"Did he really? I…didn't know that."

“That man has stuck out his neck for me more than he should’ve but….” I shrugged, “Here we are, watching an insubordinate running laps around the largest church in the city because he doesn’t know how to keep his damn mouth closed, while Beylier’s off drinking tea in peace.”

"A bit poetic if you ask me. Or tragic. However you may view it."

“It’s tragic and I need mercy.” I rested my back against the stone pillar beside, facing James properly with my legs folded underneath me. “....He saved the café manor, it looks like.”

"Really?" James dropped his playful smile, concern layering over instead, "Did the financial situation really drop that low? You hadn't mentioned anything to us before."

“I would’ve let whatever happened play its course. Things are easier that way.”

"Is it?"

"Sometimes, James. Sometimes."

"Well...I'm glad it didn't have to turn out that way this time around." James looked to me, "Perhaps Arno is capable of good things after all."

“Only time will tell. Until then….” The air picked up enough that my cowl hovered. The orange tint of the sunset wavered in the air, and the shadows of the ground towered over all the cobblestone walkways.

Again, Arno passed until he disappeared from view.

I collected my words, “I commend you for your efforts, James, for your unwavering dedication to your goals, and to the rest of the team. I know I don’t….say it much, but what you do…..I don’t think I can ever do. Not again.”

"I..." James withheld the rest of the sentence, slouching in his posture to let this relaxed demeanor take hold of his face, "I'm glad I can be of assistance then, Elysia. You've taught me much and you've also given me enough liberty to be able to handle things at your behest. I don't believe I would have been able to get this sort of experience anywhere else." He settled his wrists against his knees, looking over to the sunset beyond, "But if there is...any consolation...I think you're doing well despite...what might have happened in your past. If I may be so bold."

“Heh…” I’m the one who chuckled at this, and got to my feet, ".....If you knew....you'd probably laugh."

"Try me."

“….I fell in love once,” the words drifted, as if I actually didn’t say them. As if a part of me did, something that wished to be held onto, but my eyes said nothing as I faced the horizon. And there, the voices spoke, they grew in size, multiplied and sung their chorus in the air. All I heard was the tingling noise, and the muffled sounds of dashing footsteps stories below. “But things ended…. differently.”

"….I'm listening."

Arno's voice shrilled from below, trying to hold onto any sense of life that he desperately clung onto, "AM I DONE YET?!"

At this I stepped forward, and walked across a white beam, standing at the very edge of the column, my back to James, “…...Some other time.” Arno clung onto the nearby crate against the church’s wall, trying to compose himself as the sweat drenched around his face. “You coming along? Charlotte would…be happy to see you,” I answered instead.

"Of course, nothing would make me happier." James smiled tentatively. He stood properly with papers in hand, though he made no motion to move. “Oh…and one more thing.”

“Yes?" I turned, and the wind picked up. My cowl flapped, and I let the wind take its course. It sputtered and shook, and the red curls dispersed, the shadows strong on my face. And when I looked at James, I saw his chest tighten, and the way his eyes lifted and stared. Taken aback by the golden sheen possessing mine, and the way my pupils extended to inspect every pore on his freckled flesh.

"Do you...ever feel lonely? Especially around this time?"

“….What do you mean?”

"I don't know...it's just...something I've noticed." The chimes of _Notre Dame_ rang in full glory, nearly numbing our space from how loud they tolled. But he knew I could still hear him as he went on, "When dusk falls...I feel like you endure this strange sort of sadness....even if you are amongst others....you cast your eyes towards the gold colored sky...and loneliness pervades you if only for a moment."

“I’ve seen many sunsets,” I admitted. Then my eyes casted, and they faced the horizon where the orange mingled with the gold, “But only one ever came close to ever making me happy. That was a long time ago.”

"I understand, pardon me for questioning you out of the blue with it. I just...want to say if you ever need something, your team is here for you."

“….Let us go, Charlotte waits for us.”

T̶̛̝͉̬̤́͛h̶̛̬ĕ̵̖̼͚̱͠y̴̻̺̌̆͐'̷̡̩͇̦̓̀̍̕v̴̦͖͐͑e̴̙̔͋ ̷͙̇̂m̴̦̈͝e̵̼͓̞̔̒t̸͙́̊͛ ̶̤̊̊̅ä̷͚̠̼͎́̂̾ ̸̤̌̌ṭ̵́͘e̵͉̱͙̽́r̴̟͈͂͐̈́r̷̫̮̯̖̾͒̚i̷̠̩̼͋̓̕b̴̧̟̏l̸̢͖̗̣͊̓e̴͚̙̖̋̚ͅ ̷̗̌̆f̵̖̬̀͆͗å̶͉̦̀͜t̷̗͊̂ė̵͖̑̂,̸͇̭̃̊̑ ̷̠͙̥͇̔̆̇h̴̛̲͕̣̬͐̅͌â̶͙̜̳͜v̶̢̡̈́ė̴̞̏̓ň̸͍͉̣͙̕'̴̰̝͂̏͛t̴̡̞̿̈́͝ ̶̞̹̃̕ṭ̸̺͓̬̈̓͆̀ḫ̵̤̕͝ȩ̶̬̥̞̈́͌͐ÿ̵̠̲͔͘?̸̙̅


	10. Répétition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we go.
> 
> As per my last post, I apologize for the delay; events out of my control decided to pay me a visit, and I wasn’t in a right place of mind. 
> 
> Things are still unclear and uncertain, but I’m moving myself toward a better mindset, and have hope that things will work out one way or another. We thank you for your patience and your continuing support; this chapter stretched to 40 pages, so grab yourself a snack, sit back and enjoy. 
> 
> As always, have yourselves a pleasant day, be safe, and until next time.  
-Keys

Despite the interference, the abrasiveness, the level of nonsensical antics: Arno Dorian saved the _Café Théâtre._

And he took pride in that as the next alternative weeks came around; Giselle took initiative to her fullest potential while Pierre was hesitant on investing anything further. She resisted, and she pursued her time and effort into aiding Charlotte with handling the café’s business. In turn, Charlotte allowed her to have…whatever she needed basically. Whether it be providing Giselle room for more products, unused clothes we had stashed in the attic, or handing over utensils; the two were joined at the hip and I think Giselle being a role model of sorts had something to do with it. I didn’t argue against it.

The servants Bridgette and Marceline grew well acquainted with Maduka and Oya, and the four greeted one another respectfully to exchange and receive what it was that was needed to improve café efficiency. Grisier worked his charm on bringing in any potential customers, and served them the meals Marceline whipped up, the brewed tea and coffee Bridgette and Charlotte learned to prepare, and the extra pastries donated from _Café Muguet_. Jacques made himself as busy as the adults; sending messages, delivering small bags of pastries and desserts, then back again to give any word or news of what was needed in what corresponding business.

It didn’t stop there; the café’s stage was rented out to whatever performer, poet, musician, comedian and speaker Charlotte came across on the street (as I dragged myself behind her, or else Mathias would’ve had my head if I let her go alone). They were brought as entertainment and distractions, and the next thing we knew, the café was bursting with the citizens of France. The backyard and front courtyard were swept and clean of any debris, and Grisier was in the process of fixing the plumbing of the moss-less fountain. The money steadily poured into new performers, new dishes and some renovations around the area; it was like an entirely new place with a rejuvenated crew.

Mathias worked endlessly as the nights came, and soon enough he gave the news with not a frown or furrowed brow in sight: the building will stand as is (for now), and as long as the revenue came, the further the issue would stay at bay. Charlotte was beside herself, and all the worry that had one flooded her aura had been elevated with new ideas and new motivation. I was…happy for her, and this found passion she consumed herself in, and all these new people she was getting to know Giselle’s crew.

Then….there was Orfeo.

If I had to describe the immortal in any way….

It was disconcerting to be clueless on what exactly he was thinking occasionally. He had this new, unbearable smirk I couldn’t stand now. It would carve on his rakish face whenever we were in the same vicinity, and one mere look was all it took to activate it. Like he had won a round of some imaginary, befuddling game I was unaware I was partaking in; holding his cards at bay, and baited me to join in this weighted match.

I would come to the manor around the late afternoon, the café dwindling in its commotion closer to closing time, and Orfeo would be the one to pick up the money if not Maduka (who I favored being around in that case).

“Ah, yes yes, let me inform Mathias, wait right here,” Charlotte clapped her hands, smiling broadly at the dark-haired man. She strode merrily down the hall with a singsong hum when I came to the front door of the house-portion of the estate. I picked up my head after rubbing it, seeing Orfeo standing in the main foyer and leaning against the railing of the helix staircase.

“Great, you’re here,” I dropped my hand, giving a slight eye-roll. 

"Why are you so surprised," Orfeo offered me a flat stare, his wavy locks teasing around his eyes. His hair had been tucked in a small ponytail, being a small wisp of jet-black obscurity. "You should be used to this by now, even if it's on the other foot."

I stood in front of him, giving him a stern gaze, “If it’s your face…you’ll have to at least give me a century before I come to terms with it.”

"Well good luck with coping then."

“…..You’re in my way,” I replied, straightening my shoulders. Again. His smirk emerged with a stimulated, hidden aim.

He gestured to his side, his toned arm relaxed and poised perfectly to actually block my way this time, "I think you can find the strength to move around me," he answered with a slight crane to his neck.

“This is my manor you’re in,” I didn’t let up.

His irises glistened, indulged, "The manor we helped save. You're welcome by the way." The hot flare ceased in my mouth when Charlotte’s footsteps hopped her way back.

“Welcome home, Elysia~! Mathias will be out soon, would you be so kind on serving Orfeo some coffee while he waits?” she patted my shoulder, and gently plucked the binder out of my hands spontaneously, “I’ll have Bridgette drop this into your room-“

“Hey-“ but Charlotte was already on the move, zipping to the backyard of the manor. She left me with the tickled baker.

Orfeo smacked his lips lazily, his eyes slowly gliding over. He crossed his arms against his solid chest, tilting his head exaggeratingly towards me as the red irises shined in a brief veil, "Coffee with some sugar sounds fantastic right about now."

**Fucking**.

I made sure to add an exaggerated amount of sugar to it when I came back, nearly shoving the mug into him.

“………………………_Anything else_.” My words bit the air between us.

"Mmm....” he lifted the cup to his lips, and parted them to rest the sky-colored porcelain there. He gave a small tilt, let the liquid run down his throat with a satisfied sigh. Suddenly, he lifted his eyes from the cup, and feasted on my expression with a roguish glint, “I think I need to have something _sweet_ with this.”

I made a motion to step around him to finally go up the stairs. However, Orfeo blocked the way deliberately this time; his shadowy eyes dangerously glimmering as he swirled the coffee in slow, _slow_ circles, running his gaze down my slightly hot face. The darkness loomed along his shoulders, and I could see the wisps gliding around his neck, tendrils tickling at my chest. What the hell-

“Any ideas?” he questioned with an innocent smile. He really wanted to play this, didn’t he?

“Maybe you can….I don’t know….” My tone abruptly shifted to a hushed whisper, and I was presenting myself right against his front. My digits fanned out and the tips of my nails trailed up his blouse, indenting the fabric at the center of his heart. His orbs shot to them before meeting my direct look, focused on my mouth as I replied, “Indulge yourself somewhere **faaaar** away from here,” I played out the words sluggishly.

He lowered his voice just the same- "Quite a tease, aren't you?" -and dropped an octave at the end of the sentence.

I meant to continue, though my legs had turned rigid- “Tch.” Orfeo’s finger hooked at the loop of my chest’s belt, keeping me in place. My eyes searched wildly, spotting the sunspots swimming above his cheeks. Were those…always there-

"Careful how you play your cards, fox,” he leaned momentarily, the sunset’s rays igniting the golden sheen in my orbs. The edge of the cowl nearly touched Orfeo’s forehead, and the scent of the coffee on his tongue sprang free, “You might spring yourself into a trap.”

**Fuck**.

“…I hate you so much.” I scoffed, pushing away as I made my way up the stairs.

"Thank you again for the reminder." Sarcasm dripped from his lips as I heard him take a noisy sip of his coffee next.

Ugh.

Why was he….like _this_?????

More importantly, I couldn’t let a small nuisance like him take up any time when I had unprecedented issues of my own regarding the Creed.

The exchange of Arno Dorian was smooth and argument-free.

Yet, he struggled to work within my team.

I could tell that James was getting to the edge of his patience. Clement almost had this unbending look in his eye whenever he found him at my side, and Stephen grew strained from the continuous questions Arno didn’t repel from expelling out. He was brash in his words, gritty in his actions; it was conspicuous what kind of teaching methods Bellac used as opposed to mine. Without warning, I ordered my scoping or thieving missions (and I purposely made it that way) to be with the Dorian rather getting him into any kind of unnecessary conflicts, or out of my sight. He wasn’t too thrilled about being babysat, but could do nothing else to combat it. Bellac didn’t seem to mind of my different approach when word got to him (because of course, Arno complained).

“Hone the boy’s weak skills,” the Master admitted with a chuckle, “see if you can make him do a little dance while you’re at it.”

Then suddenly.

Mirabeau pulled the Creed’s members into confinement, including every Master too.

It was an unforeseen decision, and not one to be argued with; all missions given to us had been withdrawn until further notice, meaning my entire team was left with nothing crucial to do for three days. Sophie and Quemar made it their mission to find out the reason why of this unprecedented event, but Mirabeau gave no specification. Almost in reluctance did Beylier asked Bellac to take on the task.

Bellac proved unsuccessful, and this alarmed _all_ of us.

The hideout’s movement drew to that of an undisturbed, dim marsh. The dismissal of so many bodies made it eerie to walk into silence. I even found one assassin, bored out of his mind, counting the stalactites on the ceiling while another mindlessly flipped through a book, jumping his leg from anxiousness. But there they were, all four men of my squad arriving and waiting keenly for something to spring, for a different kind of news rather to be sent home for the second week in a row.

James made his uncomfortableness vocal as usual. And finally, his concerns dug into me; if Mirabeau was so insistent on committing us to those missions, why second-guess it? Why didn’t anyone know what was happening behind the doors of Mirabeau’s mind?

Almost as if avoiding telling me when I went to confront him alone:

“I’m facing new concerns and limiting our resources,” was Mirabeau’s response.

And he dismissed me with an empty binder, closing the double doors of the Grand Hall. The suspicion reformed in my mind as I made it down the empty hall, the four assassins never looking away as I walked straight to them in the main lobby.

“How did it go, Auntie Elysia?” Stephen perked up. Confidence in his tone. I remained quiet. All their shoulders dropped; confused glances exchanged.

“Were there any results, any conversation about all the information we collected?” James pressed, and I couldn’t lie to him.

“….No. I know as much as you do,” I relented.

This didn’t satisfy any of them. 

Nevertheless, I put Arno to work when I had him. And he couldn’t say no to Charlotte.

“My dear boy,” she signature-like clasped her hands on his cheeks, giving them an affectionate, purposeful squeeze, “Mind helping the ladies with some tasks?” The next thing you know, Arno was gifted a white apron above his usual trousers and simple blouse, looking like a commoner without that Assassin garment on. His grown hair was tugged back neatly and flat to extend out his ponytail out further (tied and _almost_ braided by Charlotte herself). He swept the floors and cleaned the windows where needed. He chopped the wood for the kitchen, organized Mathias’ office, and accompanied Jaq when necessary. I fetched the supplies Charlotte needed to restore or rebuild the manor, and made the bigger money drops to and from the _Café Muguet_.

“You look more fitting there than you do in a hood,” Orfeo suddenly commented once, and the coffee in my mouth almost sprang free and across the table from the look that befell Arno’s face at the end of that sentence.

“Hey, you were supposed to be on my side on this,” the Dorian didn’t let himself, crossing his arms that scrunched up his folded sleeves, “I was the one who proposed this ideal partnership to you.”

“You didn’t propose this to _me_, you proposed it to Giselle,” Orfeo corrected, collecting the end day’s currency.

“…He’s not wrong,” I added before Arno could deflect, earning a hard stare and a scrunched nose from him. “You _did_ do that. Reap your reward.”

“……….Breathe….breathe…” Arno muttered to himself, clasping his hand on the neck of the broom before moving his way to the stage, his ponytail flapping to and fro from his aggressive sweeps. Orfeo and I shared a glance, and it was undeniable to make out the amused smirk on his face.

Finally, something we both agreed on.

It was the beginnings of the Summer, the hideout was tranquil and somewhat restored to its moderate days; the ban was lifted, but again, no word as to why. The few bodies flowed like petals along the surface; unobstructed and few and far in-between. The coffee tasted pleasant this morning, and was set aside as I made effort to overlook through the large file that I piled together; an accumulation of the team’s research on various districts, and the names of the suspects we were told to watch. I spread the parchments near and far, running a hand across my hood, squinting and over-analyzing it all. But despite almost having half a week to try to decode it, none of it made sense, and why they were all connected if they were no one of importance.

Why go to such lengths to compose this all, and merely halt it without any warning?

Was…..Mirabeau hiding something?

“Yo.”

I lifted my head, watching a slender assassin making his way over, and seated himself across. Stephen pulled back his hood to reveal his loose locks and rested his chin easily on his hand, one leg crossed over the other in ease.

“Stephen,” I acknowledged him. “A miracle that you arrived before James did.” I didn’t even know if they would have a mission today….but I knew they were all itching to do something productive.

"I know, right?" Stephen let out an amused huff, a smile caressing his face as he looked at me. "What I wouldn't kill for some decent caffeine that I don't have to pay or hunt for."

“I’m guessing France’s coffee isn’t to your liking?” I felt the urge to drink a bit after asking, setting down the cup to flip the next page before me. “Sounds like you’ve tasted something else.”

Stephen wrinkled his nose, "Yeah, I've tasted a few different kinds. I'm just craving... I don't know, like, carbonation, I guess." Stephen heaved a sigh, looking off to the side in contemplation. He let out a small murmur that sounded like, _But I guess that doesn't exist yet_.

“Carb.....nevermind.” I shook my head, and let it be, “If you need coffee, they have some upstairs.” He gave an unimpressed look, making me roll my eyes. “Unless you decide to be pouty instead, fine by me.”

Stephen sighed again, practically melting onto the desk’s top, “I'm just lazy right now, Red. Getting up for non-mission stuff is too much energy,” he bit out petulantly.

“...My name isn’t Red,” I replied flatly, lowering the papers.

A confused Stephen didn’t bother lifting his chin from the desk, “It's... a nickname. Have you never had a nickname before?"

I didn’t falter, “.....Sure I have.....Lazy Butt.”

Stephen let out a bark of a laugh, bolting up with a grin on his face, "Damn straight!"

“The slightest thing amuses you,” I replied out, and took to look up to the approaching Clement next. “James is slacking today.” Alongside Clement was the garrulous Dorian, smacking Clement’s shoulder with the back of his hand playfully, and murmured something. Clement wasn’t thrilled by whatever was exchanged.

"_Bonjour_," a sighing Clement waved to us, moving impulsively to distance himself from Arno. It was with a quick slide to the empty seat next to me. "_Did we miss anything_?"

I collected the papers in a pile, and closed the binder calmly to not draw attention to it, “_No, merely Stephen admitting to his lack of physical activity_.” I finished the rest of my coffee.

Arno took the seat across from me, “_Good morning, Stephen. I didn’t get to see you yesterday_.”

Stephen gave Arno a very blank look, slowly blinking before eying me, "Whatever he said, I swear I didn't do it."

I placed the cup down, giving a simple nod, "He says he's sorry for being unbelievably annoying and wishes to-"

"I did not say that _at all_," Arno cut in.

Clement exchanged a look between us, then confirmed to Stephen with a nod with his thick accent, "She's right."

"_Did you even understand what she said just now_?" Arno backfired, giving a challenging smile.

"_No, but I got a gist of it_," Clement reaffirmed with a click of his tongue. "**She's. Right**." Arno coughed crossly, slumping in his seat with a firm line across his face.

Stephen gave a small chuckle, “Well, I'd accept your apology but I know you're not actually sorry about that."

"Why would I be sorry about something that's not true-" this riled him up once more.

“I don’t think Chat would lie to me,” Stephen continued his onslaught, laughing more confidently now to torment Arno further.

I let out a breath, rotating my fingers along my forehead, "Where the hell is James."

"Maybe he was up partying all night and slept late with a massive hangover." Stephen gave a small shrug, shifting gears. "It has to be big and exaggerated for him to not be here before us."

“_I think he’s....with Monsieur Beylier_,” Clement suddenly exposed, earning all eyes on him.

"Beylier?" I squinted my eyes, "_What for? Did you see them_?

"_I didn't hear much, not entirely too sure_," Clement rubbed his chin, pushing the head of his hiding cat back inside his coat without missing a beat, "_James looked very interested though_." Ugh. Nothing good ever comes from that.

"Then let's go find them, before all of you give me a headache.” I stood up at this, creating a domino effect of getting everyone else on their feet. I grasped the files in my arm, and the empty coffee mug in the other. Behind the three men followed, Stephen keeping close while Arno took Clement as his victim once again.

“Hey…Elysia?” Stephen walked right alongside me, his side-eye glance alerting me slightly.

“Yes?” I urged.

His voice was deep, “Beylier's not gonna steal James from us…..is he?"

This was new, “Are you concerned about that?” I had only ever seen him so reserved, something obscure running along his face as he tugged his hood on. His russet bangs swayed along his eyes, shielding them from me.

"Just because we accepted Arno doesn't mean we're gonna let anyone in our family go."

I adjusted the folder in my arm, feeling the cup somewhat slippery in my grip all of a sudden. This wasn’t a first coming from Stephen, but I never knew what I could say to…..accept that idea. Much less dissuade him from calling us…._that_.

“We’ve had this conversation before.”

“…I know.” We both held this silent watch upon one another. He was so stubborn; he was so much like James in that regard. No matter how many times I said, I deflected, I argued-

_“No, his team is his job, Ely-“_

I cleared my throat, letting the sweat trickle down the back of my neck, "I don't think Beylier is in any mood on accepting new students. There was word he had sent three students on a mission recently, and only two returned with injuries."

Stephen tightened his lips into a very flat smile, looking forward. His next sentence was barely uttered, and it nearly made me stop in my tracks.

"If he's a good Master, then he wouldn't let any of his students be injured on missions."

We walked in silence, and I didn’t lecture Arno's constant questioning on why Clement's cat liked swiping at his finger (and I was glad Stephen didn't hesitate to step away from me to demonstrate that Eugene loved him. Bottom line, Arno wasn't good with cats) as we approached the Main Hall. There I spotted James indeed being accompanied by not only Beylier, but Sophie as well. A well-deserved distraction from my thoughts.

We came into view as James waved over, smiling apologetically as Beylier and Sophie bowed their heads of our arrival.

"Have a good morning, Elysia, until the midday," Sophie smiled innocently and ventured off, leaving Beylier to face us. He stroked his mustache clean off of his own coffee intake.

"Ahh, looks like I held up James longer than I intended to, I apologize," Beylier started off, giving a hearty chuckle before clasping his hand on James' shoulder, "The boy's brain are something to pick at; sharp mind, this one."

James abashedly rubbed at his neck, "You grace me too much with compliments, I haven't really said anything worth of merit.”

"On the contrary; you don't give yourself enough credit when credit is due." Beylier argued, lifting a gloved finger and pointing it once to the diffident assassin, "Humbleness suits you though, just the sort of man I know would be tremendous help on this new mission."

"New mission? Have you been holding out on us, James?" Stephen asked with a slight nudge to the British man’s side.

“Oh no no, nothing like that. You’re all involved,” Beylier grinned at this, especially the way I scrunched my face.

“Excuse me?”

“Dear friend, don’t you remember your promise to me?” Beylier gestured his hand forward, turning his hand toward himself as if his palm were a wheel gearing into motion. “Does the name Thomas Dumas ring a bell?”

“……Not a clue,” I responded. Beylier fiddled with the top button of his jacket, giving me a raised-brow, challenging look. My eyes rolled, “Ughhhh, fine.”

“Most excellent. Then let us meet him, he awaits our arrival,” Beylier smirked. “_I see Eugene is making his appearance_,” he approached Clement at this, and brushed his finger along the cat’s forehead. Clement froze briefly, but let Beylier continue when he saw Eugene accept the pats (and the way Arno glare at the deceptive feline), “_I used to have a stray kitten visit me every other night. I grew quite fond of him the more I saw him_.”

“_And now_?” Clement decided to question.

“_Heh, not a stray anymore. Follow me, gents, and lady_.”

The _Le Louvre_ streets in front of the _Palais Royal_ were fueled with spiteful pedestrians; nearly all the markets and shops along here had been closed, or were in the process of doing so. Barrels and debris were stacked against the corners of the alleyways and the sanguine trees that rowed down the center of the wide-space pavement. Spare planks of wood rested against the deserted shops, with newspapers and scribbled parchments of the daily news spewed across the asphalts. The roaring crowds clamored to the high-built structure, gated off with posted, armed guards behind it. That didn’t deter the civilians from spatting out whatever vulgar language they had in mind, but it wasn’t our focus of the day to drabble on this scene (despite the wandering eyes of the team). The shouting morphed to a mere rumble in the air as we carried on to our destination.

We rounded at the end of a stationed podium of sorts, a stage where a single man stood and preached to the walking people of the current news of the country’s economic decline, the implemented new taxes and laws bestowed by the king himself, and so on. The crowd threw their hands upwards in disagreement, but with the speaker accompanied by another set of militias, there was nothing to be done but listen of the jarring news. Another left turn and we reached a secluded, dining area of a decent-sized restaurant.

Red banners hung from the ragged branches of the pollarding trees, and various sizes of concrete containers blossomed with bushes of many emerald shades; The benches were filled with various guests of the coffee shop, and a public drinking fountain rested within a section of tall lampposts.

“_Wait right here_,” Beylier halted us at the entrance, the sound of a playing cello, violin and piano wafting its heartbeats into the outside world. The four students lingered a bit beside me as I kept an eye on the window, watching the dark-skinned assassin make his move across the marble-checked floor, excuse himself around two men who were sharing a couple of drinks, and approach the counter where a bartender greeted him warmly. He must have expected Beylier’s arrival given the firm handshake they exchanged.

“Despite leading us all the way out here, he’s been secretive of what the mission is,” Arno countered, leaning into the window and cupping his eyes with his gloved fingers.

“You’ll know what it is in due time, meanwhile-“ I grabbed the scruff of his collar, and turned him around to face the street view, “- you’re going to have to wait.”

“Hmph,” he huffed, but gave up for now, and leaned his weight to one leg.

“Did he say the name was Thomas Dumas?” James questioned, earning everyone’s attention. “The war general?”

“Are you a fan?” I questioned. _If he's a fan, he's so useful in the Summer_, Stephen muttered to himself.

"I've heard of his accomplishments, yes." James rubbed at the scruff on his chin, "He's a part of the _Sixth Regiment of the_ _Queens Dragoon_. Despite his mixed backgrounds, there seems to be nothing stopping him from rising through the ranks.”

“Ahh, he sounds like someone highly regarded,” Arno added in.

James took this opportunity, facing him with eagerness, “I heard his regiment was a part of the incident back during the after-math of…” his informative address swooped over my head, Arno taking full attention on listening in. In the meantime, Stephen grabbed a small twig, flapping it excitedly at Eugene who peeked from Clement’s coat, his eyes large and watchful of the made-shift toy.

_“I just want to say if you ever need something, your team is here for you."_

My fingers dug into my sleeve, the blur of an image rushing across me. I shut my eyes, my shoulders tensing of the sudden voice that disrupted my secluded present. It lingered-

“Come right in,” a distracting Beylier had come back, and opened the door for us to enter. “_Monsieur_ Dumas awaits us upstairs.”

The second floor was a safe house of sorts, a long table in the center with several maps and charts hooked onto the walls. Not a single window in sight, giving the room the privacy it needed.

A dark-skinned man awaited near an empty chair, his frock coat a dark navy and embellished in several medallions and coins. A Paris-flag sash wrapped around his thickset waist and was tied securely to the back. His tan-glove fingers removed the black scarf he had on his neck, placing it on the wooden surface as an easing gesture. His strapping shoulders relaxed when he caught direct sight of Beylier; cedar irises reveled upon Beylier’s umber spheres.

“_Monsieur_ Dumas,” the Master lifted his hand, and the general took it, shaking it once firmly.

“Always a pleasure, Beylier,” the man gave an appreciative nod. “I take it this is the team that will take on our mission?”

“Yes, where are my manners?” Beylier swooped his arm to us, “Master Elysia, and her fortified team.”

“He’s talked much about you,” Dumas chuckled lightly, his vigilant gaze running up my face with his hands behind his back. 

“Has he?” I looked over to Beylier before meeting Dumas again, “I wonder what.”

“Nothing to be worried about,” Beylier haughtily exposed.

"_Enough_, that we've been recommended for this particular mission." James folded his arms against his chest, "What _is_ this mission about if I may ask?"

“Ahh…and this must be James,” Dumas suddenly beamed, lifting a finger and tapping the side of it against the top of his temple (I could’ve sworn I saw James’ eyes brighten from being mentioned). “As you wish, please have a seat.” I gave a quick glance to the table, chairs pulled from the group as I followed suite. Beylier took the seat across from me, leaving Dumas on my left who remained standing. He straightened his sleeve, and took the initiative to start, “The mission requires concentrated stealth; what I’m asking is not something any ordinary team will be able to pull off, and I have full faith in Beylier’s word.”

“Go on,” I ushered, resting my chin on my prompted hand, tracing my nails casually across my cheek. 

“France is fighting its battle; it’s citizens are restless for justice, and the country is being left open for invaders and the like to take the chance to infiltrate and reshape the justice system,” Dumas carried on, pacing with one arm hooked behind his back, the other pointing mindlessly in the air to emphasize his words, “The Templar Order is not a common enemy I have come across, but they are also not unknown to me; I have a lead of a military coup that will take place next week, and we’ve finally found an opening to stop it…before it escalates any further.”

Beylier confirmed this with a sigh, “We have tried many times to dissuade this from happening, but the man we face is not ordinary.”

“General _Marcourt_,” Dumas informed with a hard edge to the name, “He plans to execute a coup within France’s ranks, and place Templar members in their place. But…he can’t do it alone.”

“And this is where we come in?” James questioned.

Dumas nodded again, “Marcourt will not pick just any man for the job; he is hosting a tournament, _Les Matchs_ where he will recruit the best and brightest for _his _revolution. A team of four, and the winners will meet him personally, face to face."

"That is extremely convenient." Stephen held softly, tilting his head to the side,   
“Provided we can all win whatever the tournament entitles, yes?"

"Precisely." Dumas agreed curtly, but jerked a finger up again, "However, _Marcourt_ is not an easily fooled man; he'll be on the lookout for anyone that may appear suspicious. You'll have to keep yourselves undetected to ensure this mission’s success. With that in mind, you and your team will have to procure your own tickets in order to enter."

"We wouldn't be able to join by your recommendation?" James questioned.

Dumas answered solidly, "No, it would likely draw suspicion that I may be onto his schemes."

“How long have you been working with _Marcourt_?” I probed.

Dumas sighed heavily at this, “….Long enough.”

I continued, “Hmm….do you know what the tests are then?”

Dumas didn’t waste time, “The first match is collecting a total of forty flags throughout an obstacle course. The second match will be fighting an opponent group selected specifically by _Marcourt_.”

"Collecting flags?" Clement made a face at this, caught up to speed by James’ brief translations, "_You would think they would want to do something with more-“ _he waved his opens hands at this- “_pizazz. It's a tournament dedicated to recruiting Templars...you would think they would actually try and find the best of the best_."

"_Not everything is done through steel and strength. Sometimes it calls for speed and wits as well_." James rebutted, rubbing at his jaw, "It sounds to me that this would be a good exercise for our team's cooperation amongst one another, wouldn't you say, Elysia?"

“That is why Arno will be participating in this mission with the three of you. Four per team, correct?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Dumas nodded.

"_Can't the cat count_..."

"**Clement**..." James offered a side, warning glance to the younger man (who gave a small pout) before looking to Arno (who was eying Clement and the feline that hid well within his vest judgingly), "Well? We've seen your moxie during Elysia's trials, now perhaps we shall see how you fair with just us. How about it? Ready for your next trials?"

“I can do it…..way better than a impolite cat,” Arno almost grumbled.

“Then we’ve come into an agreement,” Dumas remained oblivious to their small quarrel, straightening out his coat. “The invitations will be sent out today in the noon to randomly selected individuals. In order not to raise suspicion, I suggest they’re plucked as soon and sneakily as possible. Not really discreet if you make a ruckus is it?”

“The tickets are numbered?” I asked.

“They are, but not under name, so whichever ticket stolen will work. You will form a team, but try not to do it right off the bat. Any questions, gentlemen?” Dumas turned to the group.

"No, I think with the information presented to us that we can form our own tactics to accomplish this objective." Dumas grinned at this, Beylier giving a smug smile in the British man’s direction. James looked to me, "Is there any objection?"

I thought for a moment, then directed my look to Dumas once more, “Is there any tactic planned for how _Marcourt _will be assassinated? One matter is of getting in...the other is getting out.”

“The Palace is where _Marcourt_ will meet the team, but as I said, it’s important not to raise suspicion. It is heavily guarded with posts at every door.”

“Hmmm....then I shall take a stroll, and see it for myself when the time is right,” I finished.

“I have a question,” Arno cleared his throat, smiling fleetingly, “Any chance that we’ll be able to redo a challenge if failed?”

“There’s no option for failure,” I responded right after, giving Arno a stern glance before gliding it across the rest of the lineup. “You either succeed, or you fail the mission. Do I make myself clear?”

"Crystal." James answered before Arno had another chance. The younger man's gaze lingered on his back while James turned to the rest of them, "If you would let us take our leave, I would like us to get a head start on calculating a plan to handle the task properly."

"Then by all means," I answered, gesturing forth.

"Of course, Elysia." James bowed his head briefly, and turned on his heels. "Let's go." And led the group of three out.

Dumas chuckled without warning, giving me a small smile, “They hold you in high regard.”

“Depends on which one you ask,” I rolled my head to the side. Beylier laughed at that. “You’re highly regarded yourself; my students have heard about you.”

“Ahh, have they? There’s many rumors and stories of me; it would be greatly disappointing if you adopted an unflattering impression of me.”

“It looks like you and Beylier have known each other for a long time,” I moved the conversation along, gesturing to my acquaintance. “It was only a matter of time until I had a face for your name.”

“Beylier and I share the strong belief of equality and right justice,” Dumas continued, giving a smile. “I grew up in a hard but privileged life; others are not so lucky, but that does not mean they should suffer for their misfortunes. The poorer districts of Paris carry many manumit residents from the islands further south, and they are free in France. We’re here to ensure that their choices and opportunities are the same as anyone else’s.”

“A goal that will be achieved some day,” Beylier smiled at that, and nodded in agreement. “Until then, we shall take our leave.”

“Do we?” I raised a brow.

“The Brotherhood awaits us, a discussion Sophie informed me of earlier today before you ran into us. Shall we rejoin around the late afternoon?” he directed the question to his long-time friend.

“Do what you must, you know where to find me,” Dumas bowed his head, hand against his chest. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Elysia. May we meet again.”

“Have a good day, _Monsieur_ Dumas.”

We parted from the café right after, Beylier keeping pace with me as we headed our course for the Brotherhood’s central location. Beylier took this moment to address me, giving a small smile.

“Is the boy giving you trouble still?”

“He’s struggling with the others, but by his own faults,” I confessed with a small sigh. “I suggest he fix those quickly if they are to do this assignment without a hitch.”

“That is something where time and experience will have to iron out the wedges. He has the drive, and I expect great things from him.”

“Says the one who objected about his progress.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his hand between us, “Progress solely under Bellac; a shared custody gives him a better chance.” We turned around a corner street, entering the more populated areas. “With a mouth as sharp as his, it’s best to remain on your toes.”

“As I always am,” I scoffed.

“Does that also explain why you brushed off Monsieur Dumas? He was quite taken by you.”

I rolled my eyes, “I wonder what else you told him about me.”

“Ah, so you did notice.”

Beylier and I walked through the dim entryways, making the turns we needed until we arrived at the familiar hideout yet again. He hardly made a sound, and I knew his mind was running with a conversation I was unaware of. Did he know something about our upcoming meeting?

“You seem nervous,” I mentioned, able to clearly see him in the obscurity of the tunnel.

“What makes you say that?” he tried to play off.

“You were a chatterbox not too long ago,” I exposed.

"Heh, there comes a time and place for friendly conversation when it presents itself." Beylier tucked his hands behind his back, his expression steadying cautiously, "I'm afraid...this is not one of those moments."

I looked ahead, but I felt his wavering confidence from how enclosed we were, “What aren’t you telling me, Beylier?”

"....Tell me, how much do you know about the American Brotherhood."

I paused in my step, watching Beylier fiddle with the gate door and unlock it with his hidden blade (a rare occasion as it slid back into its silver-outlined sheath), “It’s not the usual struggle between Templars and Assassins…the pieces of Eden and the folklore of what they hold and the power they possess? The centuries of fighting that was brought upon mankind?”

"Ha, no, not entirely considering it’s a fairly new country." Beylier opened the gate open for us to head in, "As it became a race in Europe for territory and resources in the new world, it also became a race to set a foothold for the Assassins and Templars. Both sides had failed several times to set something coherent up; it wasn’t until a man named Achilles Davenport finally put a mark on the map. It was known as the Colonial Brotherhood...and just like the colonies....it had a fairly....troubled existence."

We continued our stride, the rusty gate giving a definite bang as the echo died within the shadows of our footsteps. The tunnel grew in light, enough to give Beylier a visual of the tip of my nose.

“He might have been mentioned once or twice, but I can’t recollect in full,” I confessed as we turned a corner, “I’m guessing this has something to do with what he did…or was unable to do?”

"...Many would argue about what exactly happened...but...the events that would lead to the fall of the Colonial Brotherhood...may very well threaten the livelihood of the Parisian Brotherhood. "

I didn’t push it.

But I knew it wasn’t the end of it.

When we arrived at the headquarters, the familiar scent of rug, wood and coffee expelled along the air. Sophie awaited us beneath the archway, closing the book in her gloved hand and tucking the small novel away in her back pocket.

“Everyone else is waiting,” she confirmed.

“Then lead the way,” Beylier offered to her.

We did so, and we walked along the corridor, uninterrupted in our stride as we passed the several clusters of students organizing themselves amongst one another. We arrived in the Grand Hall, but we didn’t stop there. Up the stairs we went, and behind the hung banners was a wooden pair of doors, leading into a secluded room untouchable to the rest of the assassins. Inside it was the usual commodities: a long table with several, cushioned seats, a table served with both the hottest drink of coffee and tea, shelves grossed with many scriptures and books, a fireplace…tools and luxury items that deemed important for a Master Assassin. However, the only difference inside the room was the large painting from a memory long ago-

_“-a story, Elysia. It's been nearly 300 years-“_

-at the center of the table was a hidden blade monument, and finally, the crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling that ensured proper light.

There was also one rule in this room-

“Know your manners, Elysia.” Bellac’s voice beside didn’t startle me, but he came rather close that I had to straighten myself up to properly look at him.

I said nothing, but I didn’t look away; I reached up, and dropped my cowl back with a purposeful pull. The red curls swam to rest along my shoulders, feeling some of them rest along my forehead and around my temples. They knew I was different….but it didn’t make my ears burn any less.

“Forgot you had a face,” Bellac crooked a grin.

“Welcome, Elysia,” Mirabeau turned the attention of the room toward him. “Please, take a seat.” We collected ourselves to our feet, and sat ourselves across from one another. All the Masters were seated in equal distance, any kind of head chair dismissed. Quemar faced Sophie, Mirabeau faced Beylier, and Bellac faced me.

“Now that we are adjourned, we can begin,” Mirabeau sighed gently, nodding in approval.

ARNO’S POV:

The streets of _Les Invalides_ (also known for its massive landscapes of hedges and fields, but also one of the many stations for military recruitment and training) were crowded with stirred civilians and participants, but it being as such would make this mission a lot smoother.

Or at least, it should.

So the group of four, hooded men wandered off from the café, James leading with Dumas’ instructions memorized. Eventually they veered off the streets and into a large pavement of crossroads. Various civilians lingered and did nothing of importance. Arno caught glimpse of one man trying to sell his exotic bird to another potential buyer, though it was clear the poor thing hadn’t been taken care of properly with its tussled feathers. Another woman was on the floor, having a metal cup where she asked for donations; another group of well-dressed madams passed right by her, something about how one of them was finally engaged to a childhood friend who had joined a musical troupe. Another beggar, two men who talked about leaving France, a handful of teenage boys playing with crafted swords, a family with a young daughter….the list went on.

So many lives, yet so little to maintain them as Arno tried to push the images of earlier mob away from his mind. The political chaos that stirred beneath slumbering beast that they served; it was only a matter of time, they all knew. The public’s restlessness was multiplying, and how far would they go is a question no one would be able to answer.

Or be prepared for.

They crossed the _Pont de la Revolution_, a new bridge built from the scraps of stone taken from the raided _Bastille_ Arno had been captive for months (a life he didn’t miss very much). Underneath the murky water glistened like stars under the intense rays of the high sun. They passed the _Assemblee Nationale_, naturally heavily guarded to withhold the assembly of representatives on behalf of the people of France (an incident where an innocent member of the peasant people had been murdered in an office quarter, and almost half of the guards were gifted with death from trying to stop the unknown invader).

Arno made sure to keep up with the lionized James, but it was quite obvious to see Stephen and Clement proved to be both daunting obstacles on both of his sides. It somewhat bothered Arno, but he didn’t contest it; he had already gotten on Stephen’s firm side, and for unknown reason, Clement was already in opposition of his involvement. That only left James to accept him without any form of objection...or none that Arno could detect. So, he followed a bit behind than the older men, but not too far to be forgotten as they made their way to a large courtyard.

A vine-infested fountain resided in the center pavement, finely cut grass and trimmed hedges giving it a tranquil décor among its surroundings. A large of intrigued and excited spectators had gathered, and from the looks of it a table had been set up with three postmen serving as the ticket givers. The assassins stood in earshot of the event, leaning against a stone barrier and peeking through the gated gaps of metal; the bellboy drew all attention to himself with his clamoring bell. The people murmured in question. The bell boy spoke with booming lungs.

“Think you have what it takes to participate in the games?! Come on, come all, tickets are almost out, don’t miss your chance to test your mettle and prove your worth to General _Marcourt_ himself!”

“Taking the easy way in isn’t the option still?” Arno decided to get a conversation going. He wasn’t one to like silence that much.

"Of course not." James quipped, stretching his arms over his head, "We can't expect to just waltz in. We have to be creative lads."

"What do you have in mind?"

James hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers, scanning the vicinity of small, tented shops and well-dressed civilians carefully. He hummed a tune, tapping his foot in a beat of three (a droll habit Arno took notice of). After a moment of investigating, he turned to the team, gesturing ahead, "There's several spectators I can already see poorly flaunting they’re tickets about. All it would take is a slip of the hand to commandeer one of them."

After a moment of translation, Clement took a chance, "_So we'll have to split up then_?"

"_It'll be easier and won't draw suspicions to us. So on that note_\--" James already started walking, "_Bonne chance_!"

“H-Hey-“ All it took was a blink of an eye and James was gone, leaving the trio behind.

“Every man for himself,” Stephen was next, and excused himself with a skip in his step as he located a target not too far off. Now Clement and Arno were alone.

“...Erm...want to work together?” Arno asked, giving a slanted smile.

Clement stared at him, pushing down the tiny fluff ball the attempted to peak out of his coat. He didn’t even break eye-contact when he began walking ahead, leaving Arno to begrudgingly accept he was on his own as the other assassin lost himself in the crowd.

“How churlish,” Arno slumped his shoulders, although remained undeterred of the task at hand. How hard could it be to take _one_ measly ticket?

He scouted the grounds for unsuspecting participants, all the tickets mostly handed out at this point. At a glimpse, they looked like ordinary slips of paper except a golden mark of a seal of a symbol was plastered on the right corner of it. Made to dishonor the copies or fakes that dared to enter the arena.

Arno eyed himself a boastful prey, a man who didn’t bother to hide his ticket as he waved it across the air, showing it off to the group of young men circled around him, jealous of his lucky snatch. The assassin slinked his way closer, able to hear the roar of claps and laughter as the bulky man sneered, chuckling quite loudly.

“Feast your eyes on the prize; the ladies will be groveling at my feet once I become part of _Marcourt’_s troop!” He flicked his head sideways, making his wavy hair swim in the breeze.

No problem, all Arno had to do was-

“_Oi_!" The man stumbled, a flash of white having bumped against him, before hands clasped his shoulders to keep him upright.

"You are so lucky, _monsieur_! Tell us, who shall we cheer for in these games?" Stephen asked, letting the man go after a brief moment. The man puffed up, putting his hands on his hips and turning to the rest of the men in the crowd.

"Obviously you should be cheering for--"

Stephen didn’t even wait, and quietly slipped away, tucking the taken ticket into his coat for safekeeping. Arno narrowed his eyes. The assassin strode himself over in a hotly trail, hands in clubs as he came beside his comrade’s side when he finally caught up to him.

“Hey, I had eyes on him first.”

"Oh ho ho, did you now?" Stephen asked in amusement, looking down at Arno. "So I'm guessing you want me to just hand over my hard won ticket? How are you going to learn if we do the hard work for you?” Stephen’s finger swung out, and tapped the top of Arno’s nose.

The Dorian slightly froze, but took a step back with a firm stare and a small roll of his scrunched nose, “No...I can get my own ticket. You’ll see.”

Stephen gave Arno a warm smile, "Of that, I have no doubt." He tilted his head to another gentleman across the way, with an obvious ticket glimmering in the air. "Good luck out there."

UGH.

Arno swiped around with a grumble, stalking away with fierce determination. Again he set his sights out for potential takes, but somehow gravitated to the one victim Stephen had pointed to. He was tall, about a head higher than Arno was and he appeared to be chatting with a group of friends, a woman hooked at his arm. She seemed to be smiling, stroking her lover’s arm as he held the voucher out on the other, showing her and the rest of the group of his luck.

“_Surely you will make it_!” She giggled, “_You will look dashing in uniform, Louis_.”

“_You think so_?”

Arno slipped himself beside a tree, casually leaning against it, and looking at the man stuff the permit in his coat’s pocket, the golden seal slightly sparkling with his steady walk.

With a grin, Arno readied himself, picking up pace to make sure he cut the couple off at the bend of the bridge. With a good, long step, Arno moved his hands upwards, stumbling on purpose to collide with the man. He grunted at the bump, turning in annoyance at Arno who stared back, giving a hard but somewhat apologetic look.

“_Excusez-moi_.”

“_Watch where you’re going_,” he snapped, fixing his coat and guiding his lady to walk across the bridge. Arno smirked deviously, touching his pocket of where-

“What.” He halted in his tracks, his hands wildly patting against his waist, sides and chest, eyes widened. “What the hell-“ the ticket was gone?! He just had it-

“Meow.”

Arno halted in place, fixating his field of vision until he caught sight of a small feline posing at his feet. The small tuff of white hair seemed a bit ruffled, the rest of its black coat sheened and untouched. At first Arno didn't think twice, until his eyes lowered to the dirt road. It sat promptly on the white envelope, its blue orbs watching the young assassin's movements intently. Like...it had planned this..

Arno's lips twitched between a snarl and a smile, shakily bending down to his knee and presented his hand to the small feline, "I see you have something of mine, now why don't you just come here...?"

He's never dealt with cats before, and often times he's resorted only to sweeping them off the property of the _de la Serre_'s when he was ordered to clean the courtyard. Now, now when he needed this ticket most--it would be a cat and not just any cat. He had a feeling who this cat belonged to, but Clement surely couldn't have trained a cat like this.

Could he? Are cats capable of this?

He inched himself cautiously forward, the cat’s eyes dilating in size the moment he was in arm's reach, "Come here--"

"_Pss pss_."

He never imagined their eyes could go almost entirely black, the cat SHOOTING with the letter in tow between the crowd. Arno nearly tumbled forward, catching himself before darting right after the feline. It didn't take long to halt in his pursuit, already finding the feline climb up the patient, able bodied assassin leaning against a wooden pillar. Clement scratched along the chin of his pet and gingerly took the ticket, all the while gazing over to Arno's direction, "_Oh, were you worried about Eugene_?"

“_You cheat_!” Arno solidified his hold, huffing out so hard he looked like a bull ready to charge. “_Give it back! I earned it_!”

"_It sounds like you've rehearsed that line before_." Clement waved the voucher mockingly, leveling his gaze with the younger man, "_Next time, keep an eye on your weak spots or else cases like this are going to become your new norm_." Clement pocketed the stolen good and allowed his cat to comfortably nestle along his neck, "_Better luck next time_."

“_You can’t be serious_-“ Arno challenged a step forward, gritting his teeth and pointing accusingly at Clement’s direction. “_There’s no way I’m letting you get away with this, assassins comrade or not_.” He didn’t even wait, and lurched forward to intervene Clement’s getaway.

Instead, the burly assassin sidestepped, and in the matter of two seconds Arno’s lithe arm was grabbed, and twisted. His nimble feet left the ground, his coat soaring behind him and flapping over his back when he hit the floor. His lower back was exposed, revealing his undergarments of his white blouse, and small belt with various bags and pouches.

“What the hell...” Arno gritted his teeth, staring up at Clement whose eyes glowered from the shadows of his hood.

"_You have some nerve_," Clement remarked with a glare, pinning him further and making the young man grit his teeth. "_Allowing your emotions to cloud your judgment. You're capable of doing better and you let yourself fall into petty, cadging excuses. Yes, I took it--you can't change that. Move on, Dorian and **try again**_." Clement released his hold on Arno's limbs, briskly stepping back and heaved. He was then gone from sight.

Arno got to his feet, huffing and hitting the cloak hard to dust it off, “What a brute. Ugh, I can’t waste anymore time.”

He scanned the vicinity, this time more reserved and thoughtful of his next approach (and the possibility of James being his next obstacle). Most residents and granted participants had scattered, and needless to say, Arno was a bit overwhelmed of his next decision. If any made themselves open, they were surrounded by groups of individuals; it would be near impossible to conceal himself and not raise an alarm. Further and further targets walked; the less options were open for him.

His eyes darted in numerous directions, and he absentmindedly trailed around. Failing Elysia again? Word would surely reach Bellac of his failed attempt, much like how the failed theft of keys did.

_“You tellin’ me you went without a blind eye? What were you thinkin’ pisspot?!”_

“Don’t remind me,” Arno rolled his eyes at the chagrined memory.

Just then, a hand grasped his shoulder. Not threateningly, enough to make him stumble and look up at the British man.

“James?” Arno questioned.

"You look lost." James remarked with a benignant look, "Or perhaps, a bit deterred by Stephen and Clement."

"You're joking--you were watching?" the young man's shoulders dropped at this.

"Arno, need I remind you that's my job." James patted his slumped shoulder, striding a few steps in front of him, "You're still in need of a ticket I see."

"Obviously,” he tried not spout out his usual, sarcastic tone.

"Brilliant, this will be a good opportunity to see your skills up close."

"....Did you set this up?" Arno caught on, James's smile only cracking into a playful scoff, "Here I thought I was going to be lectured for the next week."

"That might happen if you don't hurry up." James crossed his arms, tilting his head in the direction of a large tent, "There's a guard there that left his ticket in a book while he finishes his rounds."

"And you want me to retrieve _that_ one?" Arno lacklusterly requested.

"You already have a semblance of your general weaknesses that Clement and Stephen forced you to realize." James held his hand out, "Prove them wrong."

Arno faced the multi-arched courtyard, and with the little guards posted around the spacious, white tent; it looked like some kind of center-of-command. Upon further inspection, there was some sort of station settled within the confinements of the camp, and a lot of objects that might get in his way. Or be of use to him.

“The book is in there?” Arno questioned, darting his eyes up to James who peered above him.

“I presume it is-“

“_Presume_??”

“I don’t see the guard holding it,” A light, teasing tone bubbled in his throat. He gave Arno a brief pat on the back before striding off, “You’ll never know unless you check.”

_God. Why._

Arno rolled his eyes, giving a slight scoff while he was at it, “Thanks.” He inspected the intricate rounds, watching little to no movement around the backside where a main building rested. It looked like it had been cleared out for the day so the camp could rest there.

Was it possible?

He made his move either way; he approached the building’s side frame, the reverse side of the camp’s entrance. Hidden in the alley’s shadows, Arno gripped the brick openings and wooden beams of the small balconies. His sinewy body was fluid and light, his feet propelling him upwards with his lean legs. Lunge after lunge, Arno scaled the structure with ease, and then successfully yanked himself onto the tiled roof with one last haul. He grinned of his success, but it swiftly faltered when he rested his knee on the edge of the roof, looking over the white space to face the real challenge ahead.

Again, the guards rotated, and until Arno was absolutely sure no one was inside the camp, he worked his descent (and knowing James was watching). He faced the building’s structure, and his hands released. The air kicked up beneath him, making his cloak and hood flap until they dropped swiftly; his gloved palms gripped the edge of a four-story window, and once more he inspected the trail-floor. Clear still-

Arno controlled his descent like rapid fire; his body ceasing and flying at every grip he worked with. One last drop and Arno hit the dirt floor, crouching and pressing against the bleached fabric. He looked down his right, then around the left corner, eying the opening of the tent. With one decisive swoop, Arno was inside, examining the organized mess; piles of papers and books were mounted around the desk.

Arno’s eye twitched, “Ah…._merde_.”

He didn’t waste time, his hearing heightened by the anxiety and fear ripping through his body. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, every sound outside slamming him with the possibility of getting caught; he did his best not to fly through the books, and make a mess opening every single one. Every novel he grabbed he would shake it profusely, waiting for that gold seal to drop out.

He grabbed one military book, and it was almost as if fate itself gifted him, “There you are-“ the decorated sheet bloomed, Arno reaching to pluck it out like a petal, “-shit-“ fate also liked to screw him around.

He rested the book back on the desk, and with a quick shove, Arno curled himself within the lower compartment. He spread his arms and legs out, pressing against the varnished oak and holding his breath as a pair of feet shifted into view. The man grumbled something lowly, and suddenly he pulled a chair into view.

_Don’t. Don’t. DON’T-_

The military man sat, and seated himself in front of the opening.

_Fuck_.

He shifted his legs to the side, sitting parallel to the desk and resting his elbow above Arno. He hummed softly to himself, and opened the book. Arno heard the ticket being taken out, being thumbed profusely between fingers to straighten it out.

“_Perhaps, this is my chance for a new start_,” the man replied to himself.

_Stop talking_, Arno quipped to himself, shutting his eyes and pushing himself further against the wood.

“_Soldat_!” the man scrambled to a stand, dropping the book onto the desk. Without another word, the man moved himself away to greet the commander who called him. Arno didn’t waste time.

He pulled himself out of hiding, checking once if the coast was clear before moving his sight on the novel. He opened it again, and there the ticket laid. He frowned.

“….I’m sorry.”

The man arrived back, but when he had opened the book again to admire….the ticket was gone.

With his stroke of luck, Arno proved successful in his haul and escape. He beheld James, Stephen and Clement awaiting his arrival, standing in the courtyard where they had first arrived. He almost ran in delight, but the last memory of the hopeful soldier reminded him of the opportunity he had taken from him. He stood before the trio, and pulled out the parchment in a stone grip.

"Looks like I made it, huh?" Arno smiled lightly.

Stephen patted Arno on the head with an amused smile, "See? No doubt." He grinned a little wider. Clement remained rather quiet on the subject, instead brushing his cat's head affectionally.

James clapped his hands together, "Bravo. Good show Arno, now that you've collected your ticket, we can officially qualify for the tournament."

Arno ignored Clement's silent response, but nodded to James and tucked the ticket back in his pocket, "I'm ready then. Hmm...is Elysia here?" He took a look around, unsure if she had also been spying on his failed attempts. That would be…slightly embarrassing.

"No, I believe she had other pressing matters to attend to," James answered.

This got him curious, "Hmmmm...then, I head over to the hideout, and see if she's there."

"Ah ah." James blocked Arno's initial getaway, wagging a finger, "Not so fast, Arno. I was hoping we'd better acquaint ourselves for the mission to come then just meeting up and running head first into it." Say what.

"I think that's a good idea," Stephen crossed his arms, giving an affirmative nod. "Tell us who the real Arno Dorian is."

....Why did he suddenly feel so nervous about that?

"Alright, sounds good to me," Arno relented nonetheless.

They arrived at Charlotte's eventually, though it wasn't the same café it used to be. It was filled to the brim with customers and consumers. The changed atmosphere brought a lighter mood to Arno’s troubling mind, especially when he saw the rest of the team taken aback by the change.

They arrived at an occupied booth, Charlotte speaking with another woman who was bundled in a modest dress, braids running down the front of her ears. Her hair was almost golden, and it shined when it swayed to address the group.

"Oh, my dear boys!" Charlotte stood up with her partner and squished James' cheeks as she always did, exultingly beaming at the others. "You've arrived!"

"Dear Charlotte, it's been...quite some time it seems." James's focus ran along the interior room, "I can hardly recognize the place."

"That's right! You boys haven't been to the café to see what's changed." Charlotte released her hold, pressing her knuckles against her hips, "That won't stand. Please, take a seat.”

“Oh, did we interrupt something?” Stephen leaned a bit sideways, inspecting the other women with a small smile.

“Oh…no no it’s quite alright, I should be going!” the mysterious woman fixed her dress, a small crease of pink filling her freckled cheeks. “I somehow lost track of time.”

“This is Rose Bertin,” Charlotte introduced, holding her arm gently and swinging it excitedly. She grinned from ear to ear, “She’s the costume designer I recently hired.”

The lady bowed her head, making her braids sway before she straightened up, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” All four greeted her with a smile, and Arno almost chuckled to see her blush worsen. “T-Thank you so much, Charlotte. I really should get going, but I will see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you so much for your services,” the madam of the manor delightfully replied back. They watched Rose give one last bow, and head her way out the double, main doors. Charlotte turned back to the young men, “I'll be back with some coffee and sweets for you boys to dine on." And she waddled off. _Fuck yeah, cookies_, Stephen quietly muttered; Arno barely able to pick it up, but laughed nonetheless.

They took their seats eagerly, Arno bound beside Stephen who took the inner seat; across sat Clement on the opposite, outer seating. Arno gave a small smile when he caught the silent man’s gaze, but it somewhat dropped when Clement brushed it off, instead inspecting the passing customers. Was he still on about what happened earlier?

“Arno!" A young boy called out from across the room. It was Jaq, grinning and skipping his way over, plopping his hands onto their table.

"Who is this?" James blinked, Clement retracting his arm while Stephen rested his chin in his hand, curiously looking.

"_Heh, bonjour Jaq_," Arno greeted with a small lift of his hand. "_How is your day faring_?"

"_Making the delivery for the cafés_," he admitted, crossing his arms triumphantly on his small chest, “_Doing a great job while I’m at it_!”

“_I believe you have been_,” Arno encouraged.

"A friend of Arno's? What's he saying?" Stephen leaned, masking his confusion to James who merely shrugged.

"_Is Elysia here_?" Arno instead asked, because suddenly the idea of talking about himself seeded a small doubt in his mind. How interested were they to know about who he was? Did they….genuinely want to know?

"Hmm?" Jaq blinked, but shook his head, "_No, monsieur. She hasn't dropped by_."

"_You know Elysia_?" James intervened, blinking in surprise.

"_Oh, oui oui_," Jaq nodded eagerly. "_She's my best friend_!" This made all but Arno giving a perplexed stare.

"_Best friend huh_?" Clement inquired with a raise brow. James offered another shrug of his shoulders. Jaq, oblivious to their nature, searched across their faces with a quirk of his lips.

"_And what about you guys?? Are you all friends with Arno_?"

Arno battled his options, but he nodded fervently, clasping his hand on Stephen's shoulder, "Stephen is my friend, isn't that right?"

Stephen gave a small smile, and didn't hold back, "Friends with Arno? Hmm...not quite."

"....We're working on it," Arno nodded next, and translated it back to Jaq.

"Ohh....only....English?" Jaq rubbed his chin. "_Hmm...that's going to be a little hard to learn_." And he abruptly walked off, muttering a self-conversation alone as he walked toward the counter area.

“…Nice kid,” Stephen replied.

"It looked like you knew him pretty well,” James revealed his undeniable, detective assumption, moving everyone’s stare to him again, “How did you meet Jaq?"

“Erm…” the young man tapped his chin, and fixing his words. “It was after I followed you guys to _Versailles_; we came back and we happened to run into him. He was rather excited to see Elysia, and I was dragged along. Turns out, Elysia was helping this small coffee shop get business. It doesn’t seem like the owner of it doesn’t like her very much. What’s his name…..” he crossed his arms at this, “Oh, yeah. Orfeo. That’s his name.”

"Huh, interesting." Stephen hummed, leaning back in his chair. "No other friends here? Or are you still working on that?"

Oh boy.

“Oh….” He suddenly felt the hot prickle rise up his neck; this was rather more of an interrogation rather than a get-together as he had hoped it would be. “I don’t…..make friends easily.” He might as well be honest.

Elise had truly only been the person he trusted and cared for the most part. Needless to say, it didn’t exactly hold up after all these years. Surprise. 

“It looks like all of you are good friends. I’m…..kind of jealous about that,” he admitted.

Stephen raised a hand, patting Arno fleetingly on his shoulder, "Well, getting to know each other helps, as James had suggested earlier. Why don't you take initiative and get to know us, Arno?"

“Hmm….alright then,” Arno nodded. He straightened himself up, and cleared his throat, “My name is Arno Victor Dorian. My father was Charles Dorian, and from what I’ve gathered from the past year, he used to be an assassin with my mentor, Bellac. Um, he died when I was very young, so _de la Serre_ took me in. I learned a lot about literature and art, and I don’t like…fireworks that much.” He gestured to the group, and gave a coy smile, “Your turn.”

Stephen gave a small chuckle and shook his head, "Not all of us know where to start like you do. Why don't you ask us some questions instead?"

Arno’s eye twitched. Why was this Stephen guy so unusual??

“Okaaaaay....then what made you become an assassin? How’s that???”

"What made me become an assassin?" Stephen asked back with a sharp smile. He put an elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand; his light hair swam down his limb, almost pooling around his elbow. "I got mugged, and almost killed. An Assassin saved me, and the rest, they say, is history!"

“.....That’s it?”

Stephen's smile got a bit sharper, "Yes, that's my answer to your question. Unless you have another?"

"Stephen, please, you're making this much harder than it needs to be for the poor man." James teased from across the table, leaning his shoulders flat against the cushion behind him, "Arno did put himself out there, it's only fair we should give a tiny tid-bit of ourselves."

"Then why don't you tell us about yourself?" Stephen insinuated, James fanning his hands out on the table.

"With pleasure." James cleared his throat, "I was born and raised in Evershot, Dorset, I grew up alongside my two cousins and uncle. I decided after to head to London to join the army, thankfully getting dragged into the riots that were breaking out instead. Met a drunkard that would soon turn out to be my assassin mentor for two years before he was killed in action, leaving me to be one of the last remaining assassins in London. I decided to journey to Paris and well, the rest as Stephen put so mildly, is history."

“_Thank you_ for _sharing_,” Arno inclined his head toward James’ direction, giving Stephen a straight glance at his right. “Evershot? I’ve never heard.”

“It’s a small village, I’m not surprised,” James chuckled.

“_And what about you Clement? If....I can ask that_.” The stare hardened a tad, the memory of being thrown on the floor replaying before him.

Clement’s eyes drifted down to the inside of his coat. He allowed the feline to slip out, sighing and rested his head back, "Marseille, older sister, fire-fighter, cats," He held a hand out to the cat the curled up at the center of the table, "_Eugene De la Croix_." Arno squinted his eyes, but dared not to get his hand closer to pet Eugene who _cutely_ rolled onto his back. He knew better than to reward a traitor.

“Huh...it’s nice to know...rather than to assume. Bellac mentioned some things about Elysia’s team...”

Stephen snorted violently, "I'm sure he did. I could mention some things about him, too, the rat bastard."

Arno….didn’t like that tone.

“...And what makes Bellac a rat bastard, exactly?” Arno tested, curling his fingers into his gloves. “Elysia hasn’t been the prime role model herself, either.”

"You mean besides the fact that Bellac doesn't actually care about any of us in the Brotherhood? And the fact that Elysia wants you to be the best you can be so you don't get hurt?" Stephen sat back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. "Bellac is entitled to things because he doesn't flinch if his whole team dies on a mission. He's an asshole about being favored, and he knows it."

Arno turned a bit to face him, his cheeks firm, “That’s highly critical of you for someone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Stephen's glare bit back, “If you can't have your team to survive your missions, then you shouldn't be taking those missions. Simple."

“What did you say?” Arno replied sharply. Stephen didn’t break gaze, resting his bent knee against the edge of the table.

"Stephen that's enough." James's voice steeled, making Arno shoot his gaze over, "....Don't jump to conclusions as such. You don't exactly know what had occurred. We must keep in mind that both our mentors, if not all the Masters, have pros and cons to each of them. Let's better than that." Suddenly, James stood next, targeting the Dorian next, "As for you, be wary about the gossip you hear about our team. Elysia finds herself a target many times solely because she doesn’t fall to the status-quo. _You_ of all people should know better to easily believe what you hear either. Or else the whole Brotherhood would have called you a traitor right from the get go."

Stephen pettily observed the table, muttering "He started it, James... and you know I'm right..."

Arno got up at this, and pointed at Stephen’s direction, “If you’re going to say something, say it to my face Stephen, or is that even your REAL name??”

Stephen snorted, "As real as Arno is yours.” He directed his face away, yet his side-eye glance goaded Arno. “And James asked me to stop. I respect him, so I'll mutter as much as I like. Unless you don't want civil conversations like the adults we are?"

Arno didn't miss a beat, "Civil conversation?? Says the one who avoids having one when people ask you a QUESTION-" he pointed.

"Enough!" James slammed a hand on the table, "Both of you!"

"But-" Arno didn't dare finish that sentence with the look James offered him. It wasn't an unearthly glare like Elysia had sent him before, but it challenged it for what the British man could muster. “But-“

“**_Arno_**,” James inclined with a veiled threat.

Arno refused to sit. James didn’t break his glare. Stephen remained where he was, inspecting Arno.

No, this wasn’t how this was supposed to _go-_

"Here you are boys!" Charlotte returned, a tray of sweets and pastries in her grasp. Her smile fell when she picked up the atmosphere of the table, "Are you boys getting along here…?"

"_I...should be going_," Clement mustered the words, getting up to disrupt the awkward silence that fogged. Eugene was quick to notice his master's movements, easily leaping off to clamp onto his brawny shoulder. He bowed his head slightly to Charlotte, pulling his hood over, "_Thank you mademoiselle, excusez-moi_." He didn’t meet any of their eyes when he hastily strode off. James exhaled heavily, turning to rub his forehead.

“Arno?”

He fought the gloss in his eyes, “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

“Arno-“

He ignored James’ call, and swiftly moved himself from the crowds that threatened to cage him. When he saw a particular couple didn’t step aside, he purposely pushed himself through, hitting the man’s shoulder on the way. A swear echoed, but Arno didn’t pause in his step.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

He didn’t know where he was going.

But soon enough Arno Dorian was by himself.

He seated himself on an isolated roof, hidden in the shade while he sat against a sturdy chimney. His bent knees held his lower arms, giving them the support he couldn’t. Exhaustion crept underneath his eyes, and slowly he blinked. The sun burned the edges of his boots.

His gloved thumb ran up the clean glass of his pocket watch, inside the single tick of the jammed hand halting on the eleventh number and never making it past the twelfth.

_Courage, my boy._

His teeth grinded, his nostrils flaring.

How cruel.

_And when I get back, we’ll see the fireworks._

His head hung, and the choir exploded in his ears, deafening the rest of the world out view. Out of focus. Away from him.

“That’s why…..” he closed the opening of the watch, muffling the endless, broken tick inside, “That’s why….I don’t like fireworks.”

_And Arno? No ‘exploring’, hmm?_


	11. Trials and Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello. Might change the title later but we'll see how I feel about it in the morning. 
> 
> Decided to take this chapter out early to make up for the lateness of the previous one. Thank you so much to my co-writers for helping me out on this one. We're moving into unknown territory but super excited for what's in store. Hopefully you guys like it too : DD
> 
> Enjoy! Excuse any typos you might find, will fix them later!
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Keys

The room was bitterly lit; a glacial haze rested at our feet despite the warmth the stationed fireplace brought. It orbited and encased our legs, leaving us restless of this expected event; awaiting to agitate, to solidify its waking impact to our rigid, cohesive atmosphere.

Much like a memory long ago.

_“Beylier…was the one who introduced me to the Parisian Brotherhood, at the time.”_

Whereas everyone outside the headquarters avoided direct contact, every Master in this Brotherhood dared cross the invisible threshold I maintained. _Intently_ studying. Noting every movement I made, every fidget I presented.

Beylier was beside himself; gave everything he could to insist I was a good candidate for their ever-growing problem of increased unrest and radicals. I was inspected, questioned (because how did someone like me hold a burned insignia of an older Creed on my finger) on my knowledge and experiences; if I had any hidden motive or agenda.

And they looked at me.

They couldn’t stop looking at me.

Circled and hovered like vultures, picking me apart with their eyes, their speculations….then-

_“What’s with the ears?” Bellac was too blunt for his own good._

_“Birth deformity,” I rehearsed._

He wasn’t satisfied, but he had to take it because everything else about me had been cleared (to an extent). Soon, there was a mutual understanding and tolerance because they trusted Beylier so much, who poured his everything into making this Creed achievable, successful under Mirabeau’s name. They were desperate at the time to move along if it meant having another hand to aid them.

Every time I took off the hood, every moment I breathed and channeled a living existence was put on a scale, of whether I was trustworthy or not.

To be frank….

**Humans are so predictable. **

“We call this meeting in the light of precedent events.” Mirabeau hummed, and all eyes (except Bellac’s whose tenebrous coals lingered along the table in front of him) turned to address him. The Grand Master folded his digits together, the creases of his old age creating ravines when he pressed at his loose knuckles, “It’s of utter importance which is why we called this meeting in secrecy. No word is to leave, and I trust we understand the gravity of this rule.”

"What exactly could be of such importance, Mirabeau?" Quemar gazed wearily over, settling his glasses aside his mug of coffee, "Does this have to do with the National Assembly again?"

"No, while I fear for the sake of our country...this is a bit more personal this time,” Mirabeau revealed, and suddenly he grew ten years in that moment.

"Personal?" Sophie lowered her cup at this, "Is it an assassin matter?"

"Yes, one that we've contested with before, years ago." Mirabeau exclaimed, his brows knitting together. The only sound was the crinkling of the firewood, overriding the entire stillness of the quarter. The way Mirabeau inspected the table cautioned us, Bellac casting his cagey gaze to him when he realized the Grand Master yielded his sentence.

“What about?” Quemar pressed, and I heard the stretch of leather when his once relaxed palm fisted.

"Shay Cormac."

The room cut to utter silence.

No one moved.

Bellac eerily purchased Mirabeau’s stone-like expression, jaw tight and ears red.

“What the bloody hell did you just say?” the shaggy-haired assassin pressed a hand on the table, but even Mirabeau couldn’t meet his direct gaze. Instead the Grand Master closed his eyes, his crow feet extending out of his face and melding with his forehead as he crushed his hand against it.

“**_Shay Patrick Cormac_**?” Quemar enunciated with ferocity, getting to his feet. Sophie’s jittery hand clattered her cup down, the small spoon accompanied with it falling onto the carpeted ground.

“…..The very same-“ Mirabeau replied.

“Where?! When???” Bellac moved recklessly, a body instinct. The chair beneath him rattled and managed to catch itself before it toppled. “He’s on his way?”

The room heated tensely; even Beylier who was usually calm sweated, running his gloved hand across his face to clear it. Sophie in turn pressed her hand against her mouth, trying to contain whatever ill-boded state plagued her. Quemar and Bellac glared at Mirabeau, knowing it wasn’t his fault, but at the same time-

“He’s already in Paris,” Mirabeau’s words devasted the room’s hold, Quemar having to grip onto the table’s edge while Bellac couldn’t take it any longer, and was pacing around the room.

“That’s….” Quemar couldn’t find the words.

I inspected the panic, the absolute betrayal in everyone’s faces.

“Shit…” Bellac muttered, facing the wall and burying himself into the shadow of the room. Concealed away, trembling at his form.

I knew it was stupid to say, I knew it would make everyone question me, but- “Who is Shay Cormac?” I had to ask.

Whatever spell had possessed Bellac spun to a new direction, directly to me and his nostrils flared. Words couldn't be contained, but they were not delivered when he instead turned with a huff. Mirabeau stayed the other man's potential worded assault, holding his hand in the air, though it deflected everyone else’s stare at me.

Mirabeau focused, frowning, "I would not lie if I said I'm a bit surprised you haven't heard of him before, Elysia."

“Tuscany faced its own issues,” I reminded, though felt this copper-taste at the back of my throat.

“Then, I will explain it to you briefly.” Mirabeau straightened himself, resting his left hand on the table, his right hovering in-between the space of the table and his chin. There his fingertips rubbed one another, contemplating. “Shay Cormac was once an assassin, spending his time and early years under the tutelage of Achilles Davenport of the Colonial Brotherhood. After some time, he betrayed the Assassins to join the Templars, becoming one of their most fearsome weapons. For nearly ten years, he had laid siege to the Brotherhood...and despite their efforts, he succeeded."

“He has been hunted down many years….but each assassin that has crossed his path has been unsuccessful,” Beylier calmly responded, and it affirmed my hesitation from how soft spoken he had gotten. “Even now, old age doesn’t stop him.”

“Absurd!” Quemar called out, giving an unsatisfied scoff, “Despite word of mouth, we shouldn’t hinder on this. I say we strike him when possible, and make sure he doesn’t bring any more disruption than what we’re already facing with.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind thinking that-“ Bellac suddenly fronted, pointing at Quemar as Mirabeau motioned to stand between them (almost as if the table wasn’t there to begin with), holding his hands out. And everyone grew silent as Bellac rambled, “We stand no chance! No matter how much force, the numbers, the support; Shay Cormac is a threat to be reckoned with and any kind of plan will meet failure to the harshest degree!”

“You must think rationally, Bellac!” Sophie tried, “If we-“

“You don’t know what I **SAW**!” this tetchy Bellac was beyond any sense of reasoning. He threw his fist out, and slammed it against the table, making all of us jolt to stand and watch intently of his spew. “He struck them all down, every single one of them…” His voice dropped at the last word, and a pained expression swelled his face. His arm was rigid, but his shoulders lightly trembled, but out of frustration or concern…maybe both.

A look none of us had seen in a while. One that…changed him those years ago.

“Cold, calculating…..” Bellac’s wide eyes trembled along the glossed mahogany, as if he were talking to himself, reminiscing a scene he had lodged away. “Colleagues…..recruiters, the wiser…the rookies…..they all fell. Bodies dropped; countless lives lost….no one stood a fucking chance. _No one_.”

"We shouldn't allow fear to control our sense of decision making, however," Sophie was quick to add, "While I agree with Bellac that sending a group of assassins to Shay would be an unprecedented suicide mission, Quemar does a make a point too. We should act vigilantly and increase our security; our main priority should be to discover what exactly is Shay Cormac's intentions with coming to France."

"…I agree with Sophie." Beylier admitted a few moments later, rubbing at his temple, "The last he had come to France he was looking for a box, one that our Brotherhood had been given to hold for safe keeping. We had underestimated the threat Shay Cormac held then, leaving the box with only one assassin; Charles Dorian."

It hit me.

Beylier knew the moment I looked at him. And he knew too when he avoided my stare, but gave himself away with the clench of his fist.

Before I could even say it, Mirabeau faced me from across the table, spread his hands on the wood, and his voice lowered, “Master Bellac has already been warned….he knows the consequences of this; the same restriction is upon you.”

“Shay Cormac murdered Arno’s father,” I cemented.

Mirabeau sighed, but it was Bellac who responded a moment later, “He didn’t deserve it….Not Charles.” The top of his head faced us, his head hunched where his dark strands morphed with the shadows of his face.

"The...murder of Charles Dorian has been a subject of...great debate for some time. To the point where even _Grand Master de la Serre_ had thought to take ownership of the responsibility: adopting Arno." Mirabeau sighed softly, his fingers drumming the surface of the wooden desk, "Now, however, we impose this restriction upon this information in order to keep the young man, and others, safe."

Someone like Arno….knowing _that_? When he already was paying a duty to his fallen step-father? I could only imagine what he would do if he found out this….Shay Cormac.

“No one knows why he’s here, then,” I decided to say. “Any guesses as to why? Unless the weakened state of the Templar Order is any indication….”

“That is highly susceptible,” Quemar agreed suddenly, rubbing his chin. “Is it possible he got word? All the way from France to the Americas?”

“Then that means someone within the Order personally called him,” Sophie added, picking up the spoon she had dropped earlier and setting it beside her cold tea. “Is there any news on remaining members? Of what has become of Elise? What their intentions are?”

"That's what the damn boy was trying to find out, wasn't he?" Bellac blasted, vehemently grumbling the next part, "His whole '_redemption_' act. _De la Serre_ got murdered, wouldn't every thieving Templar be out grabbing the title? We should just get rid of the rest of ‘em."

"You'd be committing the same atrocities that Shay had done to the assassins!" Mirabeau countered harshly.

Bellac was ready, and fired back, “Don’t you dare compare me to that bestial traitor.” They held a glower with one another, a face Mirabeau hardly made, but one he hid well until needed, “I am **nothing **like Shay Cormac.”

The room held, and no longer were we in a mutual atmosphere, but one that challenged our common ground, that made us question one another and brought doubt onto the table. And there it lingered, sewing itself into our arms and feet; hardening its stay and webbing into every dark crevice of our minds.

“We’re not saying you are,” I countered, and his eyes darted over on instinct. “You need to calm down, Bellac.”

Bellac opened his mouth with the prepared retort, but nothing expelled. His shoulders had tensed and his arms grew rigid the moment he crossed them against his chest, "Fine, _fine_. Play it that way; we'll see what'll befall the Brotherhood after."

I accepted it, and turned to look at Mirabeau, “What other information do you have?”

The Grand Master accepted shifting the focus, "...We have...little information on the Templar movements, but I am sure something will show. I have already deployed two assassins from Sophie's team to gather information...it is only a matter of waiting."

“How long must we wait until something presents itself?” Beylier advanced this time, and he gestured to Quemar once before challenging the Grand Master, “If I may be so bold…”

“Go on,” Mirabeau gave him permission.

“It’s been months since Quemar has been put in charge of deciphering Templar movement, and I’m simply unsatisfied with no conclusion. If Shay is really here, if he is amongst the city….I propose we halt all operations to chase after Elise _de la Serre_, and move our efforts to track down Shay Patrick Cormac.”

Quemar’s face scrunched, offended clearly, “Is it no easy task to follow something with no leads.”

“I’m not saying otherwise,” Beylier politely corrected. “But a grave matter has arrived in our doorstep, and I do not wish to repeat what the Colonies did with this threat.”

“What if Elise _de la Serre_ had brought Shay Cormac to Paris?” Sophie intercepted, gaining the ground.

Beylier rested his hands behind his back, and gave her a hard look, “Do you think she’s capable of doing that? Of inviting the murderer who took Arno Dorian’s father to aid her in any way, shape or form?”

“…..No,” Sophie truthfully answered a moment later, and rested her mouth in her prompted hand yet again. Her coffee eyes fleetingly inspecting the table when she sat. “No…I don’t believe she would do that.”

“I know Shay and you share history, Bellac,” Beylier posed next, and sat himself down and I followed suite. “The best course of action is to locate him, and do nothing more. Will this appease you?”

"Hmph..." Bellac's frustration rumbled clearly on his face, but he relented begrudgingly, "It's better than nothing, at least if one of those slacks finds his objective..."

"We'll have a clearer picture whether Shay Cormac is an immediate threat or not." Beylier concluded the other mentor's train of thoughts, nodding. He now turned to Mirabeau, "I'd like to compose a team to be able to handle this task. A minimal of ten assassins on command, if you may."

Mirabeau thought for a moment, but nodded, “As you wish. Ten assassins and I will assign Quemar and yourself to lead, but heed no action. Merely observation. Do I make myself clear?”

“_Oui, monsieur_,” Beylier bowed his head.

Quemar obliged, “..._Oui, monsieur_.”

Outside the corridor Beylier and I regrouped, setting ourselves near the top of the east staircase. I eyed him, but he already knew what was on my mind.

“It’s….a long story,” he smiled nervously, and let the passive flat-line of his mouth take hold.

“I can only imagine the kind of man Shay is…if someone like _you_ were so hesitant on bringing him up once before,” I pressed.

He steered the conversation, “More so, Bellac does. And knowing you were both at odds with each other-“ I wasn’t going to get more out of him tonight.

“Fair enough,” I rolled my eyes, “Though I know an insult is there somewhere.”

“You’ve both come to an understanding,” Beylier replied, giving a small tease of a smile, “I’m impressed he didn’t catapult his entire chair at you.”

“You can thank Arno for that,” I reminded him with a stare.

“Actually, I should be thanking myself.”

“Should do that when you get home, in front of the mirror.”

Beylier laughed at this, as if the meeting had not occurred not too long ago, “Your humor is something else.” The warning sound of striding boots approached us, and we both looked over to see it was Bellac. Looking….expressionless. Gods, what did he want now?

I eyed him cautiously, trying to decipher where his heated demeanor disappeared to, “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you.” Beylier exchanged a glance.

“Okay-“ I responded.

He gave Beylier a stern gaze, “In private.”

“...Certainly,” Beylier hummed, and gave me a bow of his head, “We shall talk later, then.”

“Good night, Beylier,” I responded, earning a double-take before he left with a small smile. Bellac and I moved downstairs, close to the stone wall and perpendicular to the circular, checkered floor at the center of the Grand Hall.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s about the boy.”

I waited.

“As Mirabeau has mentioned, Arno doesn’t know about Shay Cormac. He doesn’t know about his father’s murderer.”

“Clearly.”

“This is between us.”

I raised a brow.

“Arno has the right to know,” his voice dropped a tone. “He can’t be left out in the dark.”

“You want to expose that?” I rejected. “The boy is irrational. It’s unwise.”

"You don't think he might lash out worse later? When it becomes apparent that everyone knew?" Bellac emphasized the severity of it, "The boy acts on impulse and his emotions. Believe me, I couldn't beat it out of him no matter how much we've trained together. He'd sooner hunt down Shay himself when the time comes and he feels vulnerable. If he knows now, he could still have a chance."

I shook my head, and the clinging question blurted out before I can stop myself, “What is your history with this Shay? Why does it sound like you know who he is?”

Bellac’s cheek swam with a tense muscle. I crossed my arms at this, and studied him intently as he looked to the side, avoiding.

“_Pierre_.”

"Before I came to Paris, I lived in New France, right above the Colonies." Bellac snapped, surprising me that he was even answering, "Served the militia while I was training to be an Assassin; I saw the worst of what had to be offered then. I witnessed the Templars raze villages in order to get one assassin...but Shay...Shay was a monster on his own. He had this thing....a calling card...where he leaves _one_ person alive from each raid he committed; message to any remaining assassins that dare stand in his way."

“You saw this personally?” I questioned. His tired stare spoke volumes.

"Every day for nearly five years." He answered, inhaling the memories deeply, "It didn't matter who, young, old, inexperienced or a Master, Shay always found a way to finish the job. At that point, I found no other option but to leave and head to Paris. Weeks later, I find out the entire Brotherhood had essentially been crushed by that purge..."

“He sounds like a problem not to be taken lightly,” I replied. I kept firm, “However, I don’t think it’s wise to tell the Dorian until we know more, or how long Shay will stay. The less Arno knows, the better for now.”

"Tell me; would you have preferred to never know who killed your parents if it happened to you?" Bellec demanded, "Arno's desperate for answers, despite how much I don't care when it comes to that _de la Serre_ bastard. He never had the chance to ask about his Father, it's a right he deserves to know."

A claw-like chill ran down my spine-

**Fox.**

And I winced. Physically winced in front of Bellac. I rubbed my hand across my neck, wanting nothing but to pull the cowl on my head.

I resisted to from how intently Bellac observed me, “No, I would have loved nothing more than to know....But the way I see it, Arno is not the only one who is emotional about this. So are you.”

"’Course I am." Bellec didn't hold his usual bitterness this time, "Charles was a good man, a fine Assassin, a remarkable father that raised a child on his own. I told him time and time again he had to keep himself safe to get back to his little boy back home every time. Now he's dead, and the same man is back in France. The way I see it, what sort of luck does Arno Dorian have that he won't meet the same fate as his pisspot father?"

I tried again, “He has two mentors who know how to think rationally about things....and anything less will undo him, Pierre.” I sighed, adjusting my stance to properly face him. “I’m.......” my tongue twisted, and I again winced, more subtly this time, “...I’m sorry. About Charles.”

"....Don't apologize to me. I've made my peace with what happened to him." He answered, a sad tone intertwined in his throat, "Make yours with the boy. He's going to find out, whether I tell him or he finds out on his own. He's smart, Elysia, smarter than either of us would like to admit."

“....Right.” I crossed my arms. I hummed, “He’s not exactly...being cooperative either. Any.....advice?”

"Not sure really what to give you there. I already give him enough independence on missions...then again, he’s the only student I have now." Bellec sighed, quirking his lips to the side, "Probably give him a reason to trust you and your team, that might do it."

“........There are potentially five hundred different ways that can go wrong.” This cracked his firm mouth, and suddenly Bellac was actually chuckling. I rolled my eyes at this, “It’s not funny.”

"You're the one that came to that conclusion, not me," Bellac argued.

“I’ll find some way, I suppose.” I stopped from retreating, and gave him a direct look, “I’m also going to borrow the Dorian another day. It’s an important mission that has to do with an infiltration.”

"Infiltration?" Bellec repeated, "What sort of....tch, fine. But I get for another two. I have sights on one of his marks that he's been itching to get. At least let the boy know that--ha, maybe _that'll _motivate him to cooperate better."

“You make it sound like I was going to give him a choice,” I stared blankly.

"He's as stubborn as a mule, he'll think it’s an option. "

“Does he take that from you?”

"That one he gets from his father."

“Huh....not surprising.” I made a motion to turn, but Bellac was the one who stopped me this time.

“Before you go.” He rested his shoulder against the wall, and crossed his arms for his iconic silhouette to take figure, “Spare me an answer.”

“Depends.”

He thought for a moment, humming deeply, “How is it possible you don’t know who Shay Patrick Cormack is?”

“I already said why.” I swallowed.

He raised his brows lightly at this, testing, “I find that _really_ hard to believe, Elysia.”

I felt the stiff hold in my spine, holding me balanced. I held onto my waist, unsure of where to look to make myself seem innocent in my next answer.

“That matter wasn’t important to my Creed,” I tried again. As stupid as it sounded. “My mind was in a different place...a different time.”

"Hmm..." Bellec didn't seem to buy it, "Well...on the off chance that you run into him." He traced down from his temple down to his upper cheek, "He has a scar over his right eye, tends to wear a mask up to his nose."

“Very specific.”

“You hear stories as a child, of demons and misfortunes, of the bad people of this world,” he added, taking a step further so he stood beside me. He faced toward the exit of the Grand Hall, and suddenly put his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t move, only inclined my head a bit to the left, his hot breath of fog and baked apples enclosing me, “But once you see them in real life, you never forget their face. Then, that’s when they truly become real.”

I watched him retract his hand, give a small bow of his head, and walk off.

Who the hell was Shay Patrick Cormac?

## \+ - + - +

The next morning came faster than expected.

I waited on the second-story balcony of the manor, the light of the day barely rising to ignite the town’s awakening movements. The early fog continued to scatter along the pavements, leaving a small shimmer as I waited. I overlooked the stone edge, awaiting the bodies of fleeting robes to climb, but instead I caught sight of Charlotte, addressing Giselle and Orfeo who had arrived before the café’s opening. They appeared to be in deep conversation, but Giselle’s eyes wandered and lifted up to me. She gave a small wave, garnering the other’s attention.

I said nothing as Charlotte waved energetically, said something that made Giselle giggle. Orfeo didn’t waste time, placed a hand on his hip, and that signature smirk rose to the occasion.

“Someone’s looking a bit grumpy,” he called out. Instinctively my eyes took a spin, and I moved myself away from the stone edge, crossing my arms.

“Ugh….so insufferable,” I revealed, unaware of Grisier who took a casual lean against the opening of the Training Room down the small walkway before me.

The swordsman answered, “He’s interesting, that one.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” I shot a stare.

He absentmindedly shrugged, “I like him. I don’t see why you don’t.”

“You don’t know what I’ve dealt with, obviously,” I replied firmly, jerking my hand his way.

“Give it time, and you’ll warm up to him,” Grisier chuckled.

“Then you both should be betrothed and out of my hair,”

“I don’t think Charlotte will forgive me if I did that.” He hummed a small tune, “I also don’t think I’m his type.”

“Oh, and he told you?” I snapped my head over….and I felt the hot prickle rise along my neck when I saw how smug his smile was.

“….Why don’t you ask him,” he grinned mischievously, and closed the door. Ugh, why was everyone getting on my nerves, the day just started-

“You cheated!”

“No, you’re just slow.”

“Stop acting like children. Stephen, you should know better-“

_Oh my fucking god._

I mashed my hand against my face, inclining my head toward the sky as all four men behind me arrived with a drop from the roof above the Training Room, their boots thudding against stone that lead to the center of the contained garden.

“Good morning, Red!”

“Gods…..give me patience,” I muttered, shutting my eyes then opening them when I turned in place. Clement, Arno, James and Stephen stood in a perfect line. I made way before them with my hands on my hips. “On time. Present your tickets.”

They did as they were told, Clement and Stephen pulling theirs out of their pockets, Arno reaching into his coat’s front, and James folding it out from his white pouch on his belt. The golden seal confirmed their authenticity, and they tucked them away a second later. However, my eyes glided among the group, noticing how suddenly quiet they had gotten.

“How did it go?” I attempted.

“As well as we expected,” James reported contently.

“….Is there anything else I should know about?” I inquired.

"Probably. Do you want to know? Probably not," Stephen admitted freely.

"There had been a bit of unauthorized team bonding yesterday evening...that went perhaps a tad off-rails." James answered with a well-built pokerface, clearing his throat, "Nothing serious." Arno’s posture suddenly straightened, and I didn’t quite catch where he had shot a glare to. That only left Clement, who didn’t bother to look at any of his teammates. His hand clenched at his side, eerily slow as to not draw the attention to himself, and didn’t bother to stroke Eugene’s head as he peaked out of his coat.

A thud of my boot broke the silence, standing in front of the thickset male. His head fixated away, and I realized how suddenly tense his shoulders had gotten.

“Clement,” I asked. “_Tu veux me raconter_?”

Clement looked to the side momentarily, then to the floor before wincing up at my direction, "_Things might have been said yesterday and eventually got heated between Arno and Stephen...it got too uncomfortable for me to remain so I left_."

“Thank you,” I responded, stepped away and stood in front once more. “You two. Here.” I pointed at my feet. “**Adesso**.”

Stephen took a fortifying breath and stepped forward, unrepentant. Arno paced himself to stand beside the light brunette, trying his best not to give him a side glance. That wasn’t a problem, now that I had their full, immediate consideration.

“I could care less what it was about, but whatever this is-“ I signaled between the two, and the ire glowed in my eyes, “is going to be dealt with. I will not have you both go out on a mission, and embarrass me, nor embarrass your other two comrades for your pride. Do I look like a joke to you?” I addressed callously.

"Of course you don't, Elysia." Stephen said softly, face firm. "That's the exact opposite of what I want to happen."

“It takes two to make a mess, and I doubt you’re innocent; don’t push my patience, Stephen.” I eyed him, then shifted to Arno, “I’m aware of your struggles, but don’t make this a repeated offense; I don’t take quarrels in my team lightly, and I’m not making leeway because you are new. Do I make myself clear?”

A dark loom veiled over the Dorian’s face, and couldn’t meet me eye-to-eye, “I’m aware. I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

“Every mission we deal with has a consequence, and the last thing I want is to have someone injured because of some imprudent argument the day before.” I exhaled, crossing my arms on my chest. “The minute we leave, you are each responsible of each other’s actions. Everything you say and everything you do is monitored; it’s a reflection of everything we worked for, of what I had to do to ensure you could _be_ in a Brotherhood. I’ve stressed this many times, countless times, and yet I still have to **remind** you not to fight like children in a playground.”

Stephen's lips thinned, but he kept his silence. Arno was on par, a glossy sheen coating his eyes, doing his best to look at any other direction but my gaze. Again…I sighed, my shoulders slightly dropping.

“Apologize to one another,” I replied.

Arno shifted in his place…but turned eventually, looking to Stephen with a flushed expression, “….I’m sorry, Stephen.”

Stephen let out a faint exhale, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and resting the other on his hip, "I accept your apology, Arno, and I apologize too. I might have gone a little overboard. We should….try to actually listen to each other?" He held out his hand in offering.

Arno gave it one look before grabbing it, gentle in his squeeze, “….Sounds good.”

“Now, apologize to James and Clement,” I answered. Arno and Stephen shared a glance, but nonetheless turned to the two.

“I’m sorry for my outburst,” the Dorian swiped a hand underneath his nose, keeping himself composed. “Forgive me.”

Stephen gave a small bow, "I apologize for accidentally upsetting you." He straightened and looked at Clement with a raised eyebrow, "Clement, you are allowed to call me out on that, okay? I don't like upsetting you."

Clement pressed his lips together, avoiding his gaze instead and only nodding in response. James instead took it upon himself to answer, putting a hand against his chest.

"We gladly accept the apologies. What I only hope is we grow as a group and get to be more comfortable with each other. We certainly will be needing that familiarity in order to succeed on later, more strenuous missions."

“When we get there,” I answered, watching Arno and Stephen reform in line. “Take a moment to compose, then we’ll be heading off. I would like to talk to you Clement, follow me.”

I moved myself down a segment of stone, standing beneath the rows of pergolas that withheld the blooming vegetation of vines and pink flowers. Clement moved himself to stand in the shade with me, away from prying eyes as the three men talked amongst with one another.

I started, “_I didn’t mean to put you on the spot_.”

"_It's fine, maître, I had a feeling you would notice I wasn't all here. I somewhat set myself up_," Clement answered with a rub at the back of his head.

“_It’s not a matter of setting yourself up, I saw you were uneasy. There’s always a lot at stake when you’re not concentrated_.” I fiddled with the edge of my cowl, “_Do you feel comfortable carrying out the mission_?”

“_I'm confident to do it_,” he reassured.

“_Then let us not waste time. Though_….”

“_Yes_?”

I gave a small scoff, “_Is it true…did Eugene really take Arno’s ticket_?”

"_How did you hear about that_?"

“_You think I was kidding when I said you’re all being monitored? Dumas couldn’t help himself but take a peek at your efforts_.”

The upper corner of his lip lifted up at this, chuckling softly, "_I might have spiked the ticket beforehand...I can't stop my cat once he smells it. I...had more fun watching him run then I would like to admit_."

“_Then we’ll be sure to prepare an Initiation specifically for him_,” I gave a side glance, smirking lightly. “_He’ll beat Arno Dorian to his Mastery rank_.”

Clement reached to scratch the cat’s head, smiling gently, "_He's honored_."

The inconspicuous safe house was close enough to the district, once again provided by Beylier with an awaiting Dumas. He gestured to the next room, leading us inside.

“As much as would like for you four to be heavily prepared, I would highly encourage to change your appearance,” he replied. “Be sure to equip what you need; we have spare clothes for you to change into.”

“If you could give us a moment…” I crossed my arms, giving a brief glance to Dumas.

“As you wish.” He bowed swiftly, and headed downstairs.

I motioned the four to an arc, and I stood center with my back facing the door, “I managed to scour the building where Marcourt will be awaiting your victory. It’s intensely secured with an alarm bell, and closed off of any entry points except one which is on the roof. Once Marcourt is assassinated, we’ll have to get you all through the front door; less obstacles, but you’ll be left open if you linger too long. Any questions?”

"Any noteworthy combatants we should keep an eye for during this competition?" James inquired, "Sons of generals? Soldiers looking for a rise in ranks?"

“No one in specific, but it’s guaranteed to happen when the second trial comes up,” I pressed my lips together, resting a hand on my hip. “I know you know this…but do not underestimate the trials. Do not underestimate Marcourt. More importantly, do not underestimate one another either.”

"We shall not." James acknowledged with a nod, "After all, we're just a bunch of gentlemen looking for an opportunity to gain an audience. Come on lads, let's change and move out. The competition begins soon and it's best we're early."

"How many smoke bombs do you think are appropriate for a getaway?" Stephen asked curiously, already putting various make-shift orbs and knives in different pockets in his outfit.

"As many as you can stuff in your pockets without making the ladies on the street giggle," James teased.

Stephen looked back at James seriously before nodding, "Twenty, got it."

“Before you go…” I moved a bit to the side, eying Clement who reached up to rub his shoulder. He already knew.

He sighed…but began to unbutton his coat. His hood fell back to reveal his tussled, walnut-colored locks. A few strands fell on his forehead, the sides converging into the light beard coating his sharp face. Satin, ashen irises flickered to the peeking, curious cat tucked within his layers.

"_C'mere Eugene, you'll have to stay here today_." He stroked his cat's head gently, the small feline nuzzling back affectionately. He smiled easily at the touch, removing his coat entirely to tuck the cat in a makeshift bed of his coat. He offered a look to me, "_He...shouldn't be too much trouble. I kept him up last night so he should just sleep through most of the day...but if he doesn't I am sorry_."

“_If not, he’ll keep Beylier company_,” I noted. “_Time for that Master to start pulling his weight around here_.”

“Elysia?” Arno quipped out suddenly.

I looked over, fixing Clement’s pet in my arm, “Yes, Arno?”

“….Never mind,” he answered a moment later, his eyes casting to the side.

I inspected his posture, “Dorian.” He lifted his gaze, but refused to meet my eyes entirely, “I wouldn’t have vouched to Bellac to have you another day if I thought you couldn’t do this mission.” Here, he stared. I reached out, removing his hood with one sweep and revealing his low ponytail, “Make him proud.”

“…I-I will,” Arno fervently nodded, “Thank you, mentor.”

At that, I cleared my throat, lifted Eugene properly in my grasp, and closed the door behind me.

He felt…a little better.

He tried his best to not get rid of the most essential items, and hid his daggers in the concealed straps of his boots. He secured the ponytail tighter on his head, though the loose strands along his face escaped confinement.

It was odd, seeing everyone else without their cowl. Arno always thought every Assassin had a signature look with it on, but without them….they really did look like ordinary civilians without a thought.

James’ dirty, blond hair was swept to the left side, and the freckles on his face almost turned pink from the dim, morning light from outside. His tall height emphasized his lean frame, and stood very poised and proper when he went to hide the hidden blade within his long sleeve. A dark, almost-tight blouse, slightly lifted around the edge of his trousers. His boots hardly made a sound as he paced around the room, securing his stuff away in the provided chest of the quarter.

Stephen’s arms were somewhat jarring; not that he actually had tight muscle there, but that his coat hid that fact alone. He had the longest hair, running down his back with two, symmetrical bangs framing his soft, pastel face. It was soon lifted to a very loose ponytail. An earring was clipped at his left ear, but Arno wasn’t sure if he had a matching one on the right. His eyes brightened, his blouse a light beige. When he caught Arno looking, he gave a small wink, and shifted to stand beside James to stow his affects as well.

Arno had never seen gray eyes; it was almost looking into steel itself. He did his best not to overlook at Clement’s presence, but being so close was becoming a challenge itself. It was distinguishable that Clement was the most built out of everyone, his wide shoulders stretching when he bent down to secure his boots. It made Arno feel thin in comparison. When he came to stand up and pick up his weapon, the two almost collided. Arno moved back in time, avoiding crashing into his bulky arm.

“Sorry,” Arno mumbled out swiftly, passing him with his neatly folded cloak in his grasp. He placed it in carefully, staring at the pocket watch he left on top of it. Second thoughts, “Hmph.” Arno snatched it up, and wrapped the chain around his neck and into his loose blouse.

James turned to the group, double checking on each of them to ensure nothing struck out odd, “Think we fit the part?”

“I say so,” Stephen gave an appreciated smile.

“How are you feeling, Arno?” James looked over. “Elysia gave some encouraging words.”

“...A bit better,” the Dorian nodded. “I’ll take them.”

“Then let’s not disappoint her,” James smiled and opened the door out.

Outside Dumas awaited them by the building entrance, keys in hand to lock it.

“Ready, gentlemen?” he chuckled, nodding appreciatively at their transformations. “Each one will leave at different times. Do your best to arrive randomly, but stand nearby to form your team. Introduce yourselves normally, and the rest is up to you. Good luck!”

It didn’t take long to reach the square, the memory of arriving here fresh in Arno’s mind. There was already a large crowd formed, and he merely followed the sound of excited chatter to arrive at the destination. He swam himself into the cluster of participating men, all seeming excited or nervous of what was in store for them.

Arno kept his focus on announcer when he got there, standing on the podium with a rolled parchment in his grasp. Behind him, a set of raised platforms, positioned haystacks and ramps of wood led to different levels of height. Arno’s eyes ran through the course, seeing various flags set.

How hard could this be?

“Before we begin, each participant must group in teams of four!” He raised his fingers up, indicating to the various men set about. Arno felt someone shift behind him, but didn’t bother to turn.

“Once you have selected your four, we’ll go over the rules of the first match. Hurry! Don’t dolly!” he commanded, having to stimulate the flow in order to get people moving. Arno turned his attention around, mindlessly searching along the faces for his recognizable comrades, but did his best to not immediately head toward them. Suddenly-

A palm usurped his shoulder, and he whirled his head around, expecting it to be either of the three. It wasn’t. It was a tall man, with slicked, wavy locks and a boastful grin. He fixed the collar of his blouse, blue eyes inspecting Arno carefully.

“Be a good man and join my troupe. Together, we’ll win, and I’ll be able to meet General Marcourt himself,” he rested the tips of his free fingers against his strapping chest.

“No thanks,” Arno made himself to leave, but the grip on his upper arm unexpectedly tightened. He winced. What the hell-

“I don’t think ‘_no_’ was an option,” the man narrowed his eyes, a tense smile rising.

"Monsieur, if the man said '_no_', then you'd best respect his wishes." Stephen was transient in his swift step, copying the man's grip on Arno’s opposite shoulder. "I'm sure the General wouldn't want men who like to cause scenes?"

“....Then be sure to keep your guard up,” the man let go, leering at Stephen firmly. “I don’t plan to lose.” And moved himself away from the duo, Arno giving a relieving sigh.

“Thank you, Stephen.”

"You're welcome, Arno. Let's go find the others, and hopefully keep out of trouble, right?" He sent a small smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Uh...right.”

It took little effort to regroup with Clement and James.

“Ahh, you are both in need of a team?” James sold the bit perfectly, already having _recruited_ Clement on his side.

“What a coincidence!” Stephen greeted, smiling widely. “It’s nice to meet you~”

Once the teams had been made, it didn’t take long for the announcer to garner everyone’s attention once more. He rung a hand-sized bell, then spoke on the platform as he overlooked the five teams formed.

“We are ready to begin the first round!” he bellowed, holding onto his pressed, clean vest. He stretched his arm out behind him, indicating the field of raised platforms Arno was inspecting earlier. “Your first object will be to collect forty flags. The fastest two teams will advance to the next round. Any questions? Good!” The civilians that had gathered took seats set alongside the boundaries of the field, some leaning against the wooden railing to have a better look.

“Take a good look,” James whispered lowly, his arms crossed as he fixated on the area. “And let’s see how the other teams perform.”

“Line up, yes yes, just like that!” the announcer had made a marked line on the pavement, indicating where the first, participating team would start. Arno did as he was told, his blasting chest running laps around his _Notre-Dame_ heart due to the immense anxiety creeping at the bottom of his stomach.

“On your mark! Get set!” the announcer lifted his arm up, the men at the ready. Then, a gunshot rung free, “GO!”

The scramble of bodies disoriented Arno for a second; some men took to the floor while others immediately started to climb. He bit his nails when he saw the thin ramps of wood placed purposely between some of the platforms, giving the quickest way to the colored flags. However-

_CRACK!_

“Argh!” a man dared to pull his full weight on it, and he fell right through, hitting the ground on his side. The crowd gasped, but clapped to encourage the man to try again. The rest of his team was doing their best to grab most of the flags on ground level, swooping over haystacks and propped-up barrels. The thinnest and tallest men of the quartet scrambled upwards to grab footing, and what felt like an hour later-

The bell tolled when the last flag was captured. The crowd clapped and cheered.

“The time is six minutes and thirty-four seconds!” the man announced, also giving the group a round of applause. “Take to the side gentlemen; the flags will be replaced for the next team!”

Almost like a pack of rats did the second team clamber, “Four minutes and ten seconds!” And had raised the bar. The braggadocio man from earlier grinned from ear to ear, leading his team to the side to make way for the next one.

Arno reached into his blouse, clutching the pocket watch in his possession, inhaling and exhaling to minimize the pressure building at his feet. He wanted to get this over with-

“Gahh!” Two ramps fell through on the third run, and the crowd gasped. “Five minutes and twenty seconds!”

Beside Arno was Clement, and he couldn’t help but notice the slight twitch his fingers gave. His face was pure stone, analyzing the course with cold sweat running at the side of his temple. Was he just as nervous as Arno?

The fourth group pushed the men to their limits, all brawny in size as they collected all the flags on floor level-

_CRACK_!

The ramps couldn’t hold their weight, and again they broke in-between, resorting to having to climb the platforms alone.

“Seven minutes, and fifty-six seconds!”

It was their turn now.

They made their way to the line, the announcer keeping them at bay as the flags were being positioned back for the last round.

Arno side stepped, taking position next to Clement on the far-right side. There he caught view of the roaring mass, the women excitedly giggling as they feasted their eyes upon the four men. The failed teams weren’t in much high spirits, but nonetheless curious to see how they would perform.

“_Meow_.”

The striking sound caught Arno’s look, and he looked to see Eugene was perched on a hooded person’s head. Next to them was Beylier, giving a courteous bow of his head.

He couldn’t let them down.

“On your mark!”

Arno narrowed his eyes, facing forward with the rest of his team.

“Get set!”

_Courage, my boy._

_BANG!_

“Go!”

Arno bolted, James, Stephen and Clement a mere blur once they separated.

James took initiative to scour the floor bed like Arno was, snatching and stuffing the flags in their hands, pockets and blouses. Stephen was agile, leaping on top of the haystacks with light dexterity, while Clement powered through with his elevated stamina. Arno zeroed in on the striking crimson and blues, once self-conscious that he might’ve dropped a couple from how fast he was sprinting. The pocket watch in his chest told him otherwise, weighing down the fabric from the long neck of the metal chain. The muffled ticking blasted in Arno’s ears, and he purposely focused his senses on it rather than the irrational noise of the roaring horde of spectators. 

Up the flagpoles Stephen climbed like a skilled spider, latching along the metal brackets that gave him leeway. James swerved along the ground obstacles, attentive of the floorplan and making sure he didn’t revisit old spaces and once passing Arno; his firm nod reassured the Dorian, and he daresay, made him speed up in his run. Clement-

_CRACK!_

The crowd groaned, and Arno almost stumbled to make himself halt and look. Clement was on the ground, a plank having broken beneath his weight. The Frenchman got to his feet with a heft groan, his cheek dusted with dirt as he inspected up at the platform he was trying to get up on. Then, Clement caught Arno’s eyes-

“Dorian!” Clement commanded, and hooked his hands together in front of him. For a second, Arno thought- “Leap!” _OH_!

Arno redirected his course, sliding over a stack of barrels, and sprinted full force toward Clement who stood readily. Once Arno’s foot hit Clement’s conjoined palms-

“Ohhhh!” The crowd gasped when Arno was airborne. But not for long-

“Tch!” Arno snatched onto the wooden platform above, his chest thudded harshly against it. He inhaled the painful grunt, and hauled himself to stand.

"There's still flags along the scaffolds and beams!" James called out from below, "Stephen, take the ones on the right, Arno the ones in your surrounding vicinity--Clement and I will handle the ones remaining!"

"Gotcha!" Stephen snatched the flag atop of the distant flagpole, using his nymph precision to tread across the rope walkways next. Arno didn't waste time to scale the scaffold, swinging his body from side to side to secure the banners that hung in various positions. Once he got back on top of the tower, he saw Clement launch James up to the last remaining flagpole with several banners, the lithe man hastily hooking his arm around a beam to quickly ascend the wooden platform.

That was surely the last one-

“The last one is above you!” Stephen interjected out. Wait, who was he yelling that to- “Arno!”

Arno shot his head about, hastily inspecting the tallest platform in the area, right behind him. Indeed the flag waved in the air, at the tallest peak above his head on a rickety pole. The crowd jeered in unison clapping, drowning Arno in a senseless void he couldn’t understand.

But he knew what he had to do.

He took a sprint across the lean beams, balancing the weight on his body-

_CREAK. _

The planks held in place, and he thanked his lightweight figure on keeping him afloat (or else he would’ve met the same fate as Clement). And with one last kick-

_CRACK!_

The plank gave way underneath him, but Arno _soared_-

“Ggnn!” His digits purchased at the edge, and he hung from the wooden beam. The flag flapped just above him. He reached-he was too short!

“Come….on!” Arno gave a swift kick upwards, and his palm snatched the last flag-

_CRAAAACK!_

“Oh shit-“ Arno’s arms flailed, his back facing the ground-

“AHHH!” The crowd gasped and screamed, and Arno shut his eyes for the impact-

“Ugh!”

His eyes flickered wildly; his back adjusted as he looked up. Clement had caught him, bold shoulders straightening from the force. Arno exhaled out, clutching the flag in a death-grip as the back of his knees hooked over Clement’s arm.

“Good catch,” he managed through his shaky breath. Why was he so prone on falling from such tall heights?

“Three minutes and fifty eight seconds!” The announcer shouted, and the crowd exultantly praised their success. “The team advances to the next round!!”

Clement put Arno promptly down, and he didn’t argue it either. The group recollected at the other side of the base once they removed the streamers from their possession. Once done, they were placed beside the opposing squad who gave them a shared look. The announcer settled himself in-between, giving a sincere smile as he bowed to each team individually.

“Congratulations, gentlemen, fine work accomplishing the first feat. The second round will commence shortly, so take this time to prepare yourselves before it begins.” And he set off, entering the building across the way, secluded from most prying eyes but nevertheless the setting stage of where their target awaited them.

“_Well, how splendid_,” the man from before clapped his hands, and suddenly the four assassins were facing the four opponents. The leader hovered before Arno. “_Although I commend the effort, this is where your journey ends_.”

“_I could say the same for you_,” Arno battled the man’s settled glare, “_we’re not here to compete, we’re here to prove ourselves; you’re a mere afterthought_.”

“_You little commoner, as if skilled soldiers will lose to the likes of you_,” the male was quick to answer. He lifted a finger, and pressed the tip against Arno’s chest, “_Watch your mouth, vacuous dog_.”

Clement unexpectedly grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it in place to put pressure when he leaned to him, "_Want to lose a hand, soldier? I'm sure the army would love a disabled man_."

"_Unhand me you imprudent_\--"

"_Gentlemen, that's quite enough with the scene_." James was quick to remove Clement's grasp, pulling him aside as he looked down at the leader, "_As for you, I'd be careful what you say here...it'd be an added wound to your pride if you spoke so disgracefully to your opponents_."

"Tch..." the man scoffed, eying the group once before moving away with the rest of them (who were not too kind in their scowls either).

"Hmph, I really can’t stand men like that; I despise their guts," Stephen remarked quietly beside Arno, crossing his arms.

"We should be mindful of our new 'friends'." James rubbed at his wrist, arching a brow to Clement who licked his teeth in distaste, "I have a sour feeling they'll be giving us trouble later."

"Honestly," Arno huffed out once, "Some men just don't know when to quit.”


	12. Passing Torch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello there.
> 
> A new chapter? Yes yes yes, a full chunk of good stuff ready for your eyes to feast on. It's been sitting on my computer for a bit, and thought to take it out a bit earlier than usual. Schedule is still the same being a month apart, though unsure if we'll go back to it being the fist day of the month again (we'll see). 
> 
> Nevertheless please enjoy this, and thanks for your patience. Stay safe guys, until next update!
> 
> -Keys

The front hedges of the state building’s courtyard were swarmed with spectators, the women eagerly whispering amongst themselves as the men nodded in appreciation of the participants’ valor and effort. The hushed conversations pooled and rivered into the long archway, and aroused the atmosphere with eager anticipation. White and gold-shimmering colored banners enriched the high arch; an imported red, white-trimmed rug led the way into it. The mass that had congregated outside seemed to have tripled when they rested against the wooden fence around the man-made pit.

The announcer motioned the two remaining teams to the front of the arena, giving an appreciative smile before excusing himself to a different sector of the building. Arno looked away from the glancing opponents, his eyes scouring the vicinity before meeting his comrades’.

“We did rather well the first round. This second shouldn’t be...too bad?” he smiled nervously, unable to shake his nerves off.

"Depends on what they want us to do, I guess." Stephen remarked, arms crossed casually against his chest. He side-eyed Arno with a small smirk, “It’ll be alright, don’t fret.”

"I wouldn't count too much on our luck, gents." Arno followed James’ gaze; their entire team eying the armed soldiers bringing out crates of old, dingy weaponry. They parted onto grounds, collectively arranging the weapons into chests at different sections of the field. Some of the soldiers laughed in remark at how dull the effects were.

Clement grimaced at the sight, hooking his hands behind his neck to stretch his arms fully beside his head, "_Hopefully no one expects us to actually use those things_..."

“_Hopefully not_,” Arno inspected, though he double-took when he noticed- “You’re joking.” The challengers were being greeted by Dumas, and an unfamiliar blond man dressed in pressed, clean Commander clothing. A dark cost embellished with golden lining and a stitch design on his broadened chest; maroon pants were tucked inside his long boots that clung underneath his knees. Two braids ran down the front of his ears and a sculpted mustache elongated his smirk when he shook hands with the soldier that had mocked the group prior. If that was Dumas, then the man was-

“That’s not good,” James remarked with scrunched brows.

“Already making an impression on _Marcourt_ before the match even begins,” the Dorian added sourly.

"Sneaky cheating bastards..." Stephen muttered loud enough for his comrades to hear, clearly displeased alongside Clement.

As if Dumas had heard their internal battle, he smiled to them, signaling General _Marcourt_ (to which Arno instinctively straightened up). The smirking blond bowed his head to bid farewell, gave a small salute, and confidently strode to the inconspicuous assassins.

Once they stood face to face, _Marcourt_ waited with his white-gloved hands behind his back, Dumas taking the liberty of introducing themselves first.

“Gentlemen, pleasure to meet you,” Dumas bowed his head in polite greeting. “Congratulations on your previous qualifications; you showed much promise and we expect nothing less in this next match.”

“It’s an honor to meet you both,” James answered with a genteel bow of his head. _Marcourt_ studied them individually amidst the exchange, unafraid of giving an actual up-to-down stare before going to the next assassin.

“Hmph,” _Marcourt_ licked his front teeth beneath his lips, giving Stephen a sharp glance. Arno shifted his eyes, trying his best not to fidget too much in place. Clement remained absolutely still while the respectful James focused on _Marcourt_.

“Complaints?” Dumas questioned freely, light tease to his tone.

_Marcourt_ didn’t waste time, “Odd that two British men have found their place with one another at an _equal_ opportunity.” He took a step forward, standing before Stephen and Arno from higher height, “Rather thin, these two.” Arno bit his tongue at this, curling his hand into a fist as _Marcourt_ didn’t let up, “You a soldier? A commoner? Do you know how to speak?” He suddenly addressed Stephen, and unexpectedly flicked one of his long bangs aside, seeming in shock of its length, “_Know how to speak French? German? Italian? Do you have a tongue_?“

"_Conosco l’italiano, monsieur_," Stephen replied without missing a beat, lips pressed. His blue orbs cooled darkly, but held a small glimmer of mischievous intent.

"The hair needs to be trimmed," _Marcourt_ ignored him and moved his vulture instinct to Arno (who didn’t appreciate it at all). "I need bigger men, not little girls who want to play soldier." His mind _raced _for an answer, a comeback of any sort as he semi-glared up to the General. Dumas himself looked a bit uncomfortable, but said nothing as he awaited, and stared when _Marcourt_ chuckled at Arno's quiet, annoyed demeanor.

"Thanks for your well wishes," Arno finished solidly, nails digging into his palms.

"You're going to need it," _Marcourt_ hummed, pleased of the exchanges before moving himself away, "Come along, Dumas. I think we've seen enough."

The dark-skinned General gave the men an apologetic look, bowed his head, "Excuse us," and followed after _Marcourt_. Arno's face flushed, his teeth grinding as he dug his heel into the dirt floor, the fury building at the back of his throat.

James leisurely released a frustrated sighed as Clement glared with him, "Well...I think it's easy to say there won't be much remorse with him _gone_."

"We can stab him after we win this whole competition," Stephen’s displeasure coated his words.

"Then let's be sure to put on a show for them," James agreed with a slight huff. After a moment he looked over to Clement, jokingly patting his shoulder, "_Looks like you're what an 'ideal' Frenchman looks like, huh_?"

"..._Please don't_." Clement's shoulders slouched, his eyes rolling to the side, "_I’d rather shave my head than to ever be in that man’s good graces_."

"Let's just get this over with….." Arno settled his focus on the prepared field. The crowd shuffled, and the announcer waved to them to approach, "_To make him eat his words!_" Clement and James stared at the fiery young male, briefly sharing a gaze before sweatdropping.

"Gather, the next round is about to commence!"

The roaring crowd jeered as the eight men entered the area, four ordinary chests laid out at each center of the fences. The announcer raised his arm to address the spectators.

"The second round consists of battles of strength and strategy! Each team will have a station, and in that station is a hoisted flag,” he indicated to the opposing corners of the fences. Indeed, a wooden post was dressed with one single flag. “The opposing team must collect the flag in order to gain victory. Each chest contains a series of weapons at your disposal; choose wisely!" He indicated to the fences, "If anyone steps out of the ring, you're immediately disqualified! If you seriously injure a participant, you're immediately disqualified! Any questions? Good! Stand in a row, yes, just like that! Face one another- excellent!"

Arno, Clement, James and Stephen all stood at arm's length of one another, and three yards away were the rivals. Behind them was their hoisted flag, fluttering in the hot breeze.

"Standing flag of a team is the winner!" the announcer made himself to the outside perimeter, the crowd cleared at least one foot away from the edge to prevent any kind of interruption. "On your mark, get set, GO!"

Arno bolted to the chest on his far left, yanking the opening and revealing the...not-in-good-condition assortment of weapons. He scowled, but kneeled nevertheless, digging through the spears, swords, until-

"You'll do-" he pulled out a rapier sword, thin its shape but good enough to hold. Arno recruited over to the others, they too readily equipped. Stephen procured himself an arm-sized yet dented dagger, Clement held a rusty axe, and James gripped an angular weapon, an overused-iron kukri.

"Why am I not surprised they got the better weapons?" Arno shot a stare to the average-conditioned weapons the opposite team claimed.

"We're made to lose, that's why," James glared.

"I say Arno and I aim for the flag, while you and Clement guard ours?" Stephen offered out quickly.

Clement nodded with Stephen's plan, “Sounds good.”

James rolled his shoulder back, assessing the field, "Agreed, make note of the space and what it offers. You're the first line to break through, you'll have to be smart. I'm sure they're coming with a similar strategy as ours."

"_Keep an eye on the soldier boy,_" Clement narrowed his gaze, hinting to Arno to grab his attention, "_I think he has something hidden under his sleeve._"

"Noted,” Arno regarded.

Simple enough...or so it seemed.

"Speed is our key, Arno." Stephen and Arno approached cautiously; the two tallest of the opposing four took aim toward them, their swords shimmering silver in the high sunlight. The experienced, bully-soldier narrowed his eyes, inkling his head mockingly to the flag as his comrade held a similar blade in size. "Let's show those bastards what we're made of."

Arno grinned at this, rotating the rapier handle once before facing forward with the American, “Gladly.”

Arno and Stephen sought their chance and almost on instinct did the two dash in opposite directions. Stephen’s weapon collided immediately, swiping away at the sword that threatened to cut him away. Another swing, a duck, and Stephen’s flying kick was delivered. His foe grumbled as he hit the dirt, the two men protecting the base gripping him to his feet to re-challenge Stephen’s advance.

Arno faced his own opposition, gritting his teeth as the man wasted no time in sending flying sparks; rapier and blade sliced and clanged the air, jarring the crowd further with the promise of a one-on-one. One jab after another, the man was relentless and obviously skilled in the practice. Arno felt the sting of the poor handle; how long would it last until it gave out?

“_If you had joined me, then we wouldn’t be wasting anyone’s time_,” the man sneered, giving another jab. Arno dodge-rolled, regaining his footing and breathing evenly. He side-stepped on a controlled arc, muscle-memory; Bellac’s constant lectures were enough to embed their words into his legs.

“_Just shut up and fight_,” Arno grumbled, and took a step further; his rapier met iron, and he didn’t stop his onslaught. The man resisted and slowly backed up, keeping Arno at bay for now. But the Dorian was on a set mission, driving the man away a safe distance. The crowd suddenly roared in cheers, making Arno grin of his gained ground. However, his opponent was unexpectedly chuckling, luring Arno further away. Why was he-

“Argh!” Clement’s voice raised the hair on Arno’s neck. He shot a glance back, seeing Stephen had been pushed to the edge of the fence, his opponent keeping him there. The two other burly men sought their chance, and dashed across to invade their post; jabbing their purposely chosen spears to separate Clemet and James-

They knew their strategy from the beginning!

“_Pay attention_!” Arno rolled back, avoiding the swung blade that cut into the ground.

“Stephen!” Arno called out, racing to guard their post. One of the men had managed to push James out of the way, and Arno’s eyes widened when his hand was ready to yank the rope to their banner-

“No you don’t!” Stephen’s fist made contact, sending the invader stumbling back.

“Regroup!” James’ muffled order melted with the horde’s cheers. Clement and Stephen motioned to stand on either side of him as the Dorian arrived to take the position in front. Four bodies faced four bodies again, the soldier-experienced man whispering something Arno couldn’t catch to his comrades.

“They knew what we were planning,” Arno exhaled angrily, shaking his head in disbelief.

Stephen gave a wary inspection to the opposite team, "Okay, new plan, any ideas?"

"Clearly we need to revamp our strategy." James huffed lowly, narrowing his gaze across the way, "They're keeping us at an arm's length, but posing the heaviest at their post. We're facing a three to one if we go on the offense, but we can't just keep with defenses. So...we'll have to balance our team."

"How?" Clement asked.

James swept his gaze over to Stephen, quirking his lips, "Stephen, defend with Clement. Keep those twats from using their spears. _Clement, if they try and separate you from the flag, break them._"

"_Heh, don’t have to tell me twice,_" Clement secured his grip on his axe, nodding.

"Arno, you're with me. We're going to fish them out with their own tricks." James commanded, twirling his khurki, "And...don't hold back from the name taunting. We're going to rile him as much as possible."

“I like this new plan already.”

And the two set off, but stood a good amount of distance away, near the center of the field. Once again, the same two men strode forward, eying cautiously of what their new method would subject them to.

Arno didn’t waste time, “_Are you going to gawk at us all day, or do we personally have to come over and kick your ass_??”

“……_You’re a dead man_,” the man across chuckled angrily, jerking his head in their direction. The equipped comrade of his trailed beside. James flipped his blade crookedly and crouched slightly as the two men rushed. When the opponents arrived, James was the first to meet them in combat.

Arno hadn’t seen James’s fighting style up close, but realized it wasn’t all that different to mere bar fights; it was aggressively upfront, but quick enough to hold a strange, refined elegance in his movements. The British man caught his curved blade against the handle of one of the men, ramming his knee into his chest to dislodge the weapon from its owner. With a timed kick, the sword spiraled across the dirt floor and easily divided the men’s tactics.

“_Why you_—”

“_We came to you; you really should’ve expected this_,” Arno jabbed the leader hastily with the end of his rapier, quick to block the furious strike he had to offer. Each jab was deflected, and it made it easier for Arno to throw the occasional taunt. However, he felt the handle of his rapier shift awkwardly, knowing it was going to meet its end soon enough.

Across the field the other men played their own match. Stephen worked his magic to rebound against the two burlier men, easily covering any ground for them to trek across. Clement held his ground against one easily, disregarding the brittle of his weapon to shatter it against the handle of one of their spears. Defenseless, the opponent became intimately acquainted with Clement’s raging punch to his chest.

“Oh, come now, you’re getting your arses handed to you like wee lads that ‘er been a proper brawl,” James taunted from across the way, his voice thick and sly.

“_What you’d say to me_?!”

“_You’d think serving in the King’s army would have you taught you a thing or two of learning English_,” James flipped his blade again, ducking from the erratic swipes the other man held towards him.

“_L-Let go_!”

James had caught the handle of the male’s sword, bringing a flat fist to dislodge his physical connection to it. The brute jolted back, gasping for air and harrowed a glare to James.

The British man held his sword up to his chin before he turned hastily, “Arno!” The young Frenchman turned, quick to catch the thrown sword. Heftier than the rapier but sturdy to resist the constant bashes the leader had to offer. Arno grinned at the leveled circumstances, throwing out his attention to the disgruntled rival.

“Now let’s see about that flag,” Arno quipped playfully, beckoning the leader toward him, “_Don’t be shy_!”

“_I will not be mocked_!” He grabbed the bait, and charged toward Arno with a newly obtained lance in hand. Blinded by annoyance and impatience, he swung down repeatedly against the Dorian, but despite the long reach-

“_Too slow_!” Arno jammed the sword against the neck of the spear, and heaved his weight-

“Argh!” the leader gurgled out, Arno having sent a flying kick to his chin and making him fall back to the dirt floor. The crowd roared excitedly of the sudden turn of events, but Arno didn’t waste time. He sprinted toward the pole, the flag flapping freely-

“Arno, watch out!” James’ voice rang, but it didn’t take long to find out why. One man had retreated, having cut away from James as they dashed to protect their standing. It was either now or never!

Arno picked up speed, sword in his grasp.

“_Stop him_!”

“_C’mere, you_-“ the man lurched-

“_Excusez-moi_!” Arno skid, and James was right behind him-

“_Up here_!” James grinned, smashing his hold against the combating weapon as a distraction-

“NO!”

As Arno slid right between the man’s legs, jolting up back on his feet a second later.

And one last swing of the sword, “HA!” The rope was cut, and Arno stood triumphantly beside it, arm reaching up and readily high above his head- “Looks like you lose!”- and his open palm clasped onto the soft bundle of thread.

The audience applauded and whistled loudly along with the fanfare, Arno feeling their stomping, celebrating feet shift the earth itself. The grin on his face was plastered, directing his stare over to James, Clement and Stephen who partook in their victorious win.

“The team wins the round!” the announcer shouted at the top of his lungs, coming into the field as he motioned the men to approach. He swung his arm forward, gesturing to Arno’s fleet. All four men bowed their heads, staring amused at the bully-leader approaching, spitting at the floor in distaste.

“_I demand a rematch_!” he barked out, glaring at the hesitant announcer.

“_The rules are simple_.” Dumas suddenly walked himself into the arena, his presence alone silencing the man. He rested his arms behind his back, giving a dark look, “_Unless you have a hard time following them_?”

“…_Tch! Pathetic, as if I would join any troupe through a tournament_,” the man retorted with another spit, and moved himself away.

Dumas shook his head in disbelief, but thanked the announcer and smiled warmly to the four men, “Well done. I expect nothing less from France’s best. Follow me, warriors, and you will receive your honours.”

A pathway was cleared for them when they reached the building’s main archways, the roused pedestrians congratulating them along on their way. Posted guards saluted to Dumas once they divided from the arena, allowing him to lead the four assassins down the carpeted, shaded path. Around the corner, Arno caught sight of a quad, more watches dispatched but few and far inbetween.

“Seeing you fight reminds me of my days in the Free Legion,” Dumas chuckled, his stride wide and absolute. “I am heavily impressed. You worked well with one another despite the odds; keep that spirit alive.”

“Couldn’t be done without everyone’s involvement,” Arno smiled, meeting Dumas’ gaze. “Hopefully we impressed a certain someone.”

“Haha, I don’t think Elysia is easy to please,” Dumas countered, stroking his chin as a certain look hung among his eyes, “Then again, you all have known her longer than I have; I take it you know what’s best.”

"We'll have to see. Perhaps Eugene is keeping her in a good mood," James teased, translating a moment after to a mildly annoyed Clement. The elder scratched at his neck, a chuckle radiating, "Joking aside, the moment of truth is upon us. Can it be arranged for any patrolling guards to be veered away for the next twenty minutes? I would rather draw out any more witnesses then necessary."

“Consider it done.”

They made way down another pathway, looking much like a basilica of sorts, though enclosed for more personal affairs. The dome above its delicately-detailed facade shined in crafted gold (almost blinding Arno when he looked directly at it) with mourning, angel statutes surrounding the rim.

They paused their stride among the climbing stairs, Dumas signaling his arm upwards to the entrance, ”_Marcourt_ is in there with the rest of his associates. I take it you know what must be done?”

“We’ll take care of it,” James responded.

“Godspeed,” Dumas gave a brief goodbye, and moved himself away from view.

"I got getaway covered," Stephen reminded a moment later, giving a reassuring nod.

"We're going to need it once we get an assessment of the room." James answered quickly, "Hopefully we don’t draw attention.”

“Few guards?” Stephen questioned.

“Knowing my luck….they'll at least be nine."

"_Nine? Don't you think that's a bit much_?" Clement arched a brow.

"Well, I said it's by my luck, and three is my luck. So...it's probably something you can keep adding three with…."

Stephen let out a small “Oh,” then a, “Fair enough” with a slight tilt of his head. Clement stared perplexed at the group, Arno offering a confused, shrugging gesture.

“Uh….sure.”

“Be on your guard.” James walked up the stone steps, and opened the doors for his fleet.

Inside, the guarded interior was wide, harboring an aisle that stretched outward from its crossing-center. A few dinner tables that were sheeted in white cloth ran down the sides, various food and drink, and some lit candles hosted on top of them. The transept floor pooled in most of the sunlight from the structure’s third-story, open windows. Beyond, and the far end where the choir and apse laid was one final, horizontal table, with five chairs and three bodies occupying most of them. A row of four guards stood at either side of the two walls, each one facing forward and rifles stone in their grips. The three Generals within addressed the quartet men as they finally paused at the crossing.

_Marcourt_ rested his back against his cushioned chair, his arms stretched out on the white cloth, a chalice settled between his resting palms, “So, there are the Parisians who won my tournament. Congratulations.”

“_Merci, monsieur_,” the four answered gently and at different times.

“Color me impressed; the odds were stacked up against you, but my my my, you fought against them. Not anything any ordinary man can do,” _Marcourt_ continued, and Arno felt this hot trickle of nerves run up his spine, and sweat his hands. “And that’s what we need: unordinary men. Men like _you_.”

A tense silence flooded the building, and suddenly….Arno felt like he was being watched. He tried not to make his eyes wander. James, Stephen and Clement stood properly straight, arms at their sides and heads held high. Arno tried to do the same.

“However….” _Marcourt _stood up at this, gripping the edge of his coat with a gloved hand, “you see me a fool.” He suddenly raised it, two fingers beckoning down as he sighed almost sadly to the table’s face.

Abruptly the guards shifted, legs apart as they pointed their rifles right at them. Arno’s eyes shot about, but just when he thought Stephen was about to make a move-

“_Hold your fire_.” _Marcourt_ called out into the room, and oddly looked to the open windows above them. Arno followed, jerking his head about to see snipers had been positioned above them, pointing their guns straight down at the four. “It’s a shame, really. I want you to know that I was hoping to actually recruit men for a good cause…..but I don’t think Assassins are capable of….autonomy. You’re skilled men, capable men, but men on the wrong course of history.”

Stephen parted his legs slightly, his ocean eyes scanning the scene. Clement propped his shoulder against Stephen's with a grimace toward the guards near the right wall. Arno could hear James was slightly annoyed, sighing to himself while Arno himself remained motionless, afraid to insinuate a sudden move and be blasted right then and there.

"...There's twelve..." James scowled, "It's even worse than I feared." He tentatively lifted his gaze to _Marcourt_, gesturing a casual hand out, "What gave it away? Already had suspicions you'd be sought out?"

_Marcourt_ marched down the small steps, standing in front of the table and looking among the four men, “Unfortunately….the lingering betrayal of a long-acquainted comrade if you wish to know.” Arno’s eyes cut to the two empty chairs in the room, and the realization hit him: was there supposed to be a fourth man? “Do not fret; I made sure Dumas was aware of our interrupted celebration, and sent General Louis to seek him out,” _Marcourt_ answered, looking to Arno’s way. “That’s how life is; you make bonds, you build trust with close people…then suddenly they prove themselves to be not the person you thought they were. Such promises, but disappointing nonetheless.”

“Why talk to us?” Arno pointed out, earning James’ side-glance. “You haven’t killed us.”

_Marcourt_’s intrigued eyes glided across them again, “The politicians of France have put our government in a….troubling position. The city suffers, the people suffer, and yet the potential to overturn it all goes unchecked, untouched. If you truly wanted to aid the citizens, then you should be aware of the truth.”

“And what might that be?” Stephen fed into the distraction.

“A truth Dumas even refused to decipher: the Brotherhood is headed toward a dangerous goal….one Mirabeau is willing to sacrifice everything for. And here you are-“ _Marcourt_ gestured to them, a hard look stiffening his posture, “-doing his dirty work.”

"And yet you don't claim the Templars are doing the same?" James cut in abruptly, his digits tersely rubbing against each other, "Throwing a coup against _Francois de la Serre_?? Throw the entire Templar Order into a disarray?”

_Marcourt_ enunciated clearly, clutching his hand in his grip, “I did not approve of the unprovoked, unknown coup; the murder of _Francois de la Serre_ was dreadful news, and I want nothing more than for his daughter to remain in reign. But a change needs to happen. It’s already in motion.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Arno took a step further, earning a stare from all of his comrades as his voice rose. “If you really cared about _de la Serre_, you should’ve-“

“….You, it can’t be,” _Marcourt_ lifted a gloved finger to his lips, his eyes widening in realization. Arno froze, and the Generals behind the table susurrated. _Marcourt _himself strode forward, but Arno didn’t dare move when he faced him directly, his finger and thumb stroking his groomed mustache, “I’ll be damned…you’re the boy that _Francois_ took in, Arno Victor Dorian.”

Arno swallowed, his eyes firm on the General.

“It’s not-“ James tried to say, but the blond merely ignored him.

“I know you, boy. Son of Charles Dorian, the misfortunate Assassin that received that Precursor Box back in _Versailles_. The same day that the American-bred Templar ransacked through French territory, oblivious to our radar until it was too late.” The blond man took it a step further, circling around Arno’s free side, gesturing lightly with his hand. “Thus started the great debate, birthed the political oppositions in the Order itself the minute he died. The very second _Francois_ took you in. Are you aware of this?”

“If I’m aware that _de la Serre_ was a Templar? Yes, I know that already,” Arno’s throat bubbled with frustration, his head running laps from the thousand questions that invaded him, “What are you-“

“Do you know who killed _Grand Master de la Serre_?” Marcourt’s cheeks tightened, standing right in front of a bewildered Arno, his gloved fingers signaling right at the younger man, then leisurely clenching into a fist. “You _don’t_ know.”

“Not another word,” James commanded, gripping Arno’s right arm. The Dorian didn’t even feel his fingers dig.

Marcourt did not budge, “_Do you wish to know_?”

The internal hold on his heart hauled full force. He somehow remained standing, his kneels swirled with a magnetic spoon that dared drop him to the world’s gravitational core. All he had to do was ask, the sheer curiosity morphing to an essential need, a craving to give him some sort of closure.

But he knew the minute the name would be said-

James cemented, “ARNO.”

-he would never stop looking for him.

“_I want a name_,” Arno requested.

_Marcourt_ considered a moment, “…You can start with a man named Sivert.” He searched his memory vault for any recognition of that name, raced for it when suddenly, _Marcourt_ shrugged with a small smirk, “If you even leave this room, _alive_.”

“You bastard,” Arno gritted his teeth, and made a motion forward until the rifles were raised with an echoing click, halting any of the men from making a move.

_Marcourt_ sighed, rolling his eyes, “Rid of the bodies, no witnesses.” He shot his arm up, gripping the entire room in anticipation.

A high whistle-

“What-“ _Marcourt_ shot a stare upwards, and suddenly the two groups of snipers gurgled and groaned, two obscure bodies toppling over them.

“Now, Stephen!”

The men dropped to the floor, the rifles shooting off and hitting the stacked racks of food. The room was coated in a massive barrage of smoke, the guards coughing hoarsely as they tried to get visual of the men.

“Kill the Assassins!” _Marcourt_ ordered out. Arno gripped onto rifle that stabbed out, missing his shoulder. He twisted the weapon out of the guard, and swung him around to crash against the stone wall. He dropped, unconscious. Arno crept near the ground floor, came up behind a coughing soldier, and wrapped his arm around his neck. The man struggled but he too limped in his grasped, knocked out for the time being.

Clement didn’t waste time, grabbing a nearby chair and crashing it against two huddled bodies, ramming them harshly onto the ground. Stephen was right behind him, leaping off a table, making the produce soar as he retracted his arm, the rifle swung too late. Stephen twisted it in his grasp, aiming and firing at the rushing guard coming his way before he finished the other beneath him, stabbing the rifle to his chest and pulling the trigger.

Finally, James faced the Generals, removing himself from the last two guards he had knocked down a second before. They reached for their pistols-

_ZIP-_

Two, iron daggers dug into their chests, rendering them useless as they fell beside _Marcourt_’s feet.

_Marcourt_ unsheathed his sword, facing James, “Face your fate, and show me what your legacy is, boy!” And he advanced, aiming for a clean cut across his chest.

“With pleasure,” James flicked out his wrist, and the hidden blade sparked against the iron. In one swift twirl-

“Tch!” _Marcourt_ fell to the floor, wincing as the hidden blade jerked out the side of his throat. The red liquid swam down his tan skin, and tainted his white gloves when he reached up to pause the flow. “Foolish…men…with foolish ideals….do not get to live in the New World that is being shaped….”

When the smoke had settled, Arno recollected next to James, his eyes casting onto the unmovable body, his eyes closed and blood leaking across the carpet floor of the apse. Arno swiftly looked away, his hand seeking refuge inside his blouse where he clutched the quiet pocket watch. 

"Let's make like a tree and leave, shall we?" Stephen asked, Clement alongside him. An inspection of the room was all it took to reassure James to agree.

“If you’re just going to stand there, I’m going to take and cook Eugene.” Arno looked up, seeing a hooded head peer in and direct her shadowed face in their direction.

"You wouldn't do that, Red! Eugene loves you!" Stephen gasped, making his way to their designated exit.

Clement hurried after Stephen urgently, clearly worried his mentor might continue on with her threat. At this did James allowed a soft sigh to escape, counting off by three before turning to Arno, "We shouldn't keep them waiting, let’s be off."

Arno gave one last look toward _Marcourt_’s direction, “……Of course.”

And followed after James as he was told.

\+ - + - +

I sat on the bench underneath the greenery, Beylier beside me with Eugene returned back to his rightful owner. The four young men seated themselves over the stone railing of the balcony, pastries in hand for their hard-earned victory. The scenery alone comforted my once gripped chest.

“It was a good thing we ran into Dumas when we did,” Beylier sighed. “Or else…”

“Not worth thinking about,” I replied, running my nail along the inside of my fingers.

“They did well.”

“They did, yes.”

He waited, brow arched.

I rolled my eyes, “What, should I go congratulate them?”

Beylier gave a small smirk, “I’m sure they would like that, after a long day.” I shook my head, looking away, and back at them. He continued, “It’ll do you some good. You’ve had quite a day too.”

I exhaled gently, taking in the gentle breeze that kissed through the vines behind us, “….Beylier.”

He looked to me, his eyelids curled, attentive. Soft.

“…..” This was so hard.

“Yes, Elysia?”

**Don’t get attached.**

Easier said than done.

“Are you worried?” I moved the subject along.

He didn’t have to ask, “….Immensely.” The meeting from last night spun and threaded its way into his forehead creases. He rested his elbows on his knees, gloved fingers hooking onto each other. Contemplating like he always did. “But I try not to think about it too much. My pessimistic tendencies tend to….override my thoughts if I don’t distract myself well enough.”

“Sounds like a common thing,” I agreed.

“You say that from experience?”

“……Something like that.” I paused, basking in the soft chatter and chuckles of the young men yards away. “When will you deploy to search for Shay?”

“Tomorrow, before dawn.” He held his fingers at this, and lifted his eyes to inspect the four. “What did Bellac end up saying to you?”

“His history with Shay, or a gist of it.” I looked over to Beylier, his eyes having locked on an oblivious Arno whose mane got ruffled by Stephen beside him. They were laughing about something. “I suppose the rest of you do, too.”

Beylier shook his head at this, his mouth firm and strained, “Many allies had fallen by his hand. Bellac’s irrationality is not….so far-fetched; the Rogue tore many communities apart, crumbled impenetrable sectors. It is said he was apprenticed with one of the best teams in the Colonies under Achilles Davenport, a long-time friend of mine.”

“Any reason as to why he turned?”

“Achilles never told me.” Beylier scoffed at this, “Or at least….not the whole truth. The next time I saw him, he was bed-ridden, shot in his leg and crippled for the rest of his life despite his promising start for the Creed. You could tell….something changed about him, that last day he ran into Shay.”

“Where is he now?”

A melancholy aura curtained his eyes, “A letter written from his last apprentice, _Ratonhnhaké:ton_ as he called himself, was there on his deathbed a decade ago.” He hummed in thought, running his fingers across his jaw.

“This….Shay sounds resilient.”

“That's an understatement. But he is still just a man,” Beylier reassured with a small nod, resting a hand on my shoulder. “I may have my doubts with finesse of the operation, but the Parisian Brotherhood will not tolerate any form of havoc wreak upon our nation. That much I swear I will give my all to accomplish.”

“You have a lot of faith.”

He smiled, “Rest, Elysia. You look exhausted.”

I sighed, “We’ll see if that happens tonight.”

“Why is that?”

I chewed on my tongue, “……I attract nightmares, like moths.”

“I hear wine helps. Do you like drinking? I believe I’ve only seen you drink it rarely,” he chuckled lightly.

“There’s not really an occasion for it,” I revealed.

“Heh…there doesn’t need to be one,” Beylier hummed, exchanging a glance. “I should bring you a bottle I have. Not the best, but much better quality than the ones Mirabeau hides within the bookshelves.”

I quirked my mouth at this, “You’ve seen them too.”

“Hard to miss when his breath is a storm,” Beylier scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s unbelievable.”

“How he’s leader and you’re not?”

His eyes darted away at this, “I should…get going-“

I snatched at his shoulder, turning him briefly (despite how quick he was to avoid my gaze), “Too blunt?”

“Too Bellac,” Beylier offered a teasing smile. “He’s rubbing off on you-“

“Ugh. Begone, you. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

He laughed briskly, “…Thank you for helping, Elysia. Your aid is always appreciated.”

And he left.

I strode forth, walking into the soft light of the lazy sun, the heat of the stone beneath my feet. I made way to stand behind the assassins, earning Clement’s attention as he sat with one leg over, one leg within the stone perimeter. He started the chain reaction, making all of them turn in their seat and look to me.

“Yes, Elysia?” James smiled. Really _smiled_.

Fuck.

“……You did well,” I began, crossing my arms. “You worked as a team, listened to one another, and went in prepared.”

"Do my ears deceive me?" Arno cupped his ear at this, leaning it to me, "A _second_ compliment today? Have you been replaced while we weren't looking???"

James nudged Arno's side with his elbow, "Arno, mind your manners."

"I'm asking quite genuinely. This a first for me to see this side of Elysia," Arno combatted to his elder, the other sighing in defeat.

"Welcome to having a mentor that genuinely cares about your wellbeing," Stephen remarked softly before occupying himself with his pastry.

"_Stephen_," James almost hissed.

"What did I say?" I strode over, hands on hips as I stared pointedly at the brunette who gazed up to me earnestly, "Keep this up, and I'll switch you and Arno for a day so you're stuck with Bellac for a full twenty-four hours."

Stephen let out a laugh, wiggling his pastry at my direction, “You say that like Bellac would actually let that happen. Besides, you're avoiding Arno's question on if you actually care about him doing well. Which, I'm of the opinion, that you do. Are we wrong?"

I stared flatly, my need to fulfill some sort of human emotion inside of me diminishing by the second, “Unless you’re jealous about him being traded off every three days. Would you love for the Dorian to stay longer?”

"Honestly? Yes." He held a hard look, unrepentant. "I think Arno can learn a lot from us, Elysia. It's not fair to him for Mirabeau to leave it like this."

“….No thanks,” Arno cut in, clearing his throat as he casually waved his arm in-between, “I like my two very-angry mentors the same way. No more, no less. But thanks for the offer, Stephen.”

“…._Thank you for taking care of Eugene_,” Clement coughed in his fist, scratching his head as he peeked from his coat. “_Was he any trouble_?” Thank the gods for Clement.

“_He bit my arm and thought Beylier made a better pillow at some point_,” I answered. “_He enjoys the attention; I thought he would eventually outgrow it_.”

"_That's Eugene for you...though I didn't think he'd bite_." He gave a stern look to his cat, already knowing he was trying to avoid it by purring at Stephen's direction. James laid on the cement foundation, his legs hanging over the edges as he sighed.

"Still, thank you _mentore_ for your assistance, clearly we had been a bit under prepared for the arrival of snipers..."

“Not at all…..that’s why you have me,” I noted. They all looked at my direction, and for a moment….

**You don’t listen, do you? **

“……Are you smiling?” Arno’s eyes bulged, his mouth dropping in shock. “H-Hey, don’t hide it!”

“No, I’m not smiling,” I countered.

“I saw it!”

“You’re probably just imagining things, Dorian.”

“I swear I did!”

“If it makes you feel better, I believe you.”

“Why are you saying it in _that _tone???”

Stephen chuckled, grinning, "Y'know, you are allowed to be happy and have fun, Elysia." He teased, waving a new croissant at me, "I swear your face won't get stuck with smiling!"

"I think I'll pass," my eyes rolled. "And leave that up to you four."

"Quite the dangerous choice of words, Elysia." James regarded, eying Stephen's direction, "You've incited a challenge at this rate...might want to prepare yourself for the worst."

Stephen wiggled his fingers to me, grin running rampart, “ELYSIAAAAAA~”

Ugh, god.

“Anyone who comes one foot near me tonight is going to get flipped over the balcony, I promise you that,” I pointed at all four of them, feeling the edge of my mouth twitch as they gave each other darting, amused glances.

“Elysia! Are you up there?!” a female voice rang from the street floor. The four men turned, and waved happily to the woman calling for me. “Come down, Mathias wishes to speak to us!”

“She’ll be right down!” Stephen chipped in, and waggled his brows.

“Don’t cause trouble while you’re here,” I pointed.

"I promise to make sure they're on their best behavior...but I can't guarantee I'll succeed at it." James remarked with a sigh, Arno patting his shoulder briefly. Clement merely took a bite of his pastry, ignoring his cat as it craned up to try and take a bite. Stephen didn't look any less like he was planning a nefarious plot, queuing my signal to leave.

“Good god,” I entered through the back entrance of my quarters, almost groaning outloud when I heard the four of them chuckle in delight. I continued to make my way downstairs, catching Charlotte at the bottom; her peach-gloved hands lifted up the woven edge of her sunhat to see me properly.

“How did the mission go?” she inquired, holding my arm when I stood next to her. Her green irises gleamed in the glowing sunlight, lips pink and sincere.

“As well as it could’ve gone,” I replied, tucking a strand of red hair within my cowl again. “They’ve improved overall as a unit.”

“Ahh…that’s so reassuring,” Charlotte clapped her hands lightly and excitedly, beaming at the news. “I have no doubts they’ll strive further heights! They’ll be thick as thieves.” I merely nodded. “That’s all we can hope for.” She turned to the left, leading the way toward Mathias’ office that was left ajar.

He was sitting behind his desk as usual, his feather quill scribbling away on his long document. His cup of coffee was positioned at his right, empty and holding the small bits of paper he had rolled up to throw away. Sitting across from him was Jacques, contently swinging his legs and humming a song it sounded like. Sitting in the second chair was Oya, entirely opposite in her posture as she rested her hands on her lap, back straight and viewing Mathias jot down his last note.

“Ahh, Elysia. The woman I wanted to see,” the accountant signaled out without having to look up. “Thank you, Charlotte. There’s some things I want to discuss with you two.”

“_What a sight for sore eyes_!” Jacques bolted up from his chair, grinning as he looked up to me. “_’Ello madam_.”

“Jaq,” I greeted, “Oya.”

“_Your hair looks lovely today_,” Charlotte admired the little girl’s tight braids, her eyes almost glistening from sheer joy itself. Oya merely blushed, averting her attention away. “_Aww, I didn’t mean to frighten you_.”

“_I think that’s unavoidable_-“ I paused when Charlotte slapped her hand across my arm, “_considering personal space is a myth to you_.”

“_Don’t be so rude_,” Charlotte huffed out, crossing her arms on her chest.

“_And this is the last note_,” Mathias stood up, leaning over his desk as he held out the note toward Oya. “_Let me grab the money, then you may be on your way_.” She merely nodded. He ran his fingers through his hair, adjusted his glasses, and bent down toward the large chest in the back of the office. “Ahh….this might be a bit too heavy…”

I made my way over, peering over his shoulder, “That might be a problem for two children. I’ll take it.”

“Are you sure?” Mathias questioned, but was already putting the currency in a smaller box, fixing the coins enough that they could all fit properly. “Then when you get back, we’ll have our meeting.”

“_You’re coming with us, Elysia_??” Jaq waddled himself over, vibrating in place almost. “Ooo, oooo! _We can be your bodyguard this time_!”

“_If that’s what makes you happy_.” I hoisted the container on my shoulder, steadying my arm over the top to hold it in place, “I’ll return soon.”

“Don’t take too long!” Charlotte waved us off as we exited the back door leading to the manor’s well. From there, we trailed from the backyard to the tall gate leading to the street, and I secured the lock behind me.

“_You would’ve made three trips to get this back there_,” I looked to the two, young teens. “_I thought either Maduka or Orfeo were going to show up_.”

"_Pierre and Maduka went to get supplies today and my mother had to go to Versailles to meet with someone. Orfeo is currently holding down the fort, entrusting me and Oya to handle the job_!" Jaques explained with a grin, "_I mean, who's going to bully two teenagers_."

"...._Everyone, Jaq_." Oya looked to him, "_Orfeo said we should ask Elysia or Grisier to help us bring the money back_."

"_And we didn't have to ask--Elysia volunteered to come with us_!"

I stared at Jaq, “……_Your existence baffles me_.”

"_Orfeo tends to say that a lot too_."

Oya looked at his direction, "_No. Everyone does Jaq_."

"_Even you, Oya_???" He pleaded a pout to her. The younger girl went quiet at this, her eyes fixing to her hands knitting at her dress. Jaq whined, rolling his head back, "_I'm not **that** weird_."

“_No, you’re not_.”

He beamed, “_You really mean that, Elysia_?”

“_I’ve seen weirder_,” I admitted. “_You’re….minimal weird. If that makes you feel better._”

"_Strangely it does and doesn't at the same time, but I'll take it_."

We continued our walk across the bridge, and came upon the district that was all too familiar and repetitive. The colors of summer warmed the streets, the trees in full bloom of their greens; the hedges of the city were trimmed and maintained, and the flowers among a few windowsills was enough to give the streets a nice scenery especially in this time of day.

The sector was occupied by a few stranglers, but anything busy slumbered with each passing moment of the low sunset. _Café Muguet_ came into view, Jaq already running to it with Oya walking fast behind him. I adjusted the chest one last time before Jaq held the door open for us, my boots sounding off against the wooden floor. The tables had been cleaned and pushed to the side, the sound of a broom sweeping echoing inside.

“_We’re baaack_,” Jaq walked over toward Orfeo’s side, grinning as he peered up to him.

"_I can see that_, squirt." Orfeo squished a hand down on his hair, ruffling it to the point till Jaq swiped at his wrist to apprehend him from going any further. Orfeo eyed the chest, "_Showing off for the kids, are you_?"

“_I prevented an unforeseen robbery and possibly kidnapping of two children with a large sum of money_,” I corrected, walking over to the counter and setting the box on top of it. It made a firm thud, and my shoulder rolled from the freed weight, “_But sure, I was showing off_.”

Orfeo laughed, "_I trust Jaq to handle 'em_."

"_I would've showed them a thing or two_!" Jaq flexed his noodle arms up, Orfeo having to turn away to the wall to prevent the young man from seeing him snickering, "_Hey, don't laugh_!"

He gestured his head to Oya, “_Thanks for today. Take some bread for your folks. Maduka won't be here for a bit so you get to pick today_."

"_Ooh! Oya come on! Let's see if that weird cake Orfeo was making is still here_\--" Jaq excitedly went to the back of the kitchen, Oya picking the hem of her dress to follow after. Orfeo huffed softly at the two teenagers, hearing their excited conversation from the swinging door. He almost looked peaceful, having that look…

Orfeo cleared his throat, resting his palm flatly on top of the broom, "Help yourself to something if you want."

“An invitation?” I arched a brow, resting a hand on the chest where I drummed my fingers, “That’s very unlike you.”

"It's closing time, I'd rather try to get rid of most of the stuff here anyways so...take it,” he opted to say next.

“So a practical gesture, I figured.” But didn’t argue. I rounded the corner, looking along the racks of pastries available. I plucked out two particular pieces, and rested my front against the counter. The segments of sugar sparkled as I rotated my wrist to inspect the delicacy, the spotting on the bread creating a hidden design upon closer inspection. Then, there was nothing to admire as I ate it piece by piece.

“Don’t you get bored? Baking the same things over and over again?” I remarked, watching Orfeo continuing to sweep the store’s floor.

"Sometimes. That's why I work on things on the side." Orfeo opened the door, sweeping the dirt out into the street, "Like the one that Jacques and Oya are probably going to wreck. Just a small idea I had...but today was too hot, kept melting all the caramel I had on it..." He brushed the flat of his shoes with the broom, sweeping quickly by the door before closing it shut, "It's not so much I get bored.. it's just...wondering what I can come up next. Kind of like a challenge from the universe that I can do out of spite."

“…..Wow, that was a longer answer than I was expecting. You do have some kind of philosophical mindset tucked away in that hardhead of yours.” I moved onto the next pastry, swimming my eyes along the golden braid of walnut coating the bread, “Nice to know.”

Orfeo rolled his eyes, setting the broom against the wall, "I actually enjoy what I do. Didn’t think an honest answer would be the _wrong_ answer to appease you."

I plucked the bread apart, observing the dissecting of white threads the farther I pulled. “I was joking.”

He turned, staring, “You need to work on it."

I ate slowly. Eyes searching among the floor. He missed a spot near the window, “Perhaps I’ll take more pastries, for the rest of my café.”

"Go for it."

I kneeled to grab a spare crate, “…Shit…” All his rags were dirty. “…….”

**It’s still there.**

I opened the pouch by my waist, and the red pulled like a lifeline. Clean, from when Bridgette had washed it. But from the pouch it never left, not since I put it back in…

I stretched the fabric across, covering the wood as best as I could, and hooking the edges over the sides to create a sack. I started to fill the box slowly, neatly packing the pastries by size.

_“I think you told me once...that bread meant a lot to you.”_

I shut my eyes, and pushed. Then, I opened them again.

".....So....are _you _bored of doing the same thing?" Orfeo abruptly questioned. He rested himself against the door, one arm resting behind him as the other scrubbed against the front of his apron.

“It’s not really routine if…..you haven’t done it for long,” I admitted, thankful of his distraction.

"I guess...so how long is _long_ to you?"

“I’ll find out when I get there.” I moved to the second row. Charlotte liked these. “Or when fate decides to spit me out in another time. Whichever comes first.”

The front of his foot lazily played at a wooden crack, suddenly having gone quiet. Too quiet. Intriguing enough to make me look up at him, seeing he was questionably searching the floor as if avoiding my look. He was being……very human. Not as angry as he usually was.

Most likely, having to deal with each other on occasion now might have chipped some of hid coldness away, but there was no tolerance or endurance present this time. We were just…..here.

I laid out the excessive flap of the scarf over the top, the crimson color almost burning my skin with the recognition of it flashing in my eyes. I shut them the next second again, leveling out the increasing volume of voices in my head. A mere shift in my focus and they had dwindled…and so did the voice from so long ago. I placed the crate on my shoulder and walked around the counter’s side, looking back to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.

“You’re behaving….oddly well.” I faced his direction, “Should I be worried?”

"You...always have something smart to say, don't you?" He lifted his gaze to me, challenging, "Whether I'm being nice or not, huh?"

I raised my free arm up in defense, “You were being cheeky this morning.” I was now a few feet away.

"You gave the opportunity earlier, wearing that grouchy face like a mask." Orfeo removed himself from the entrance, making my eyes lift to his height, "You don't have the same look now."

“It’s been an……eventful day. My mood elevated somewhat,” I confessed.

".... It’s different. Makes you look cute."

What.

“……………I’m sorry, I must’ve have misheard you,” I inclined my head, staring at the immortal incredulously, and suddenly the sunset refused to do its basic duty, instead seeking refuge inside the café.

"Oh really?" he raised brow. A slither of a smirk played on his lips at this, leaning his shoulder against the wall, "You look cute when you're not so grouchy. See, is that better?"

……………..The Fuck.

“……..You’re bluffing.”

Incomprehensible words bubbled in my head, and I made my way forward, attempting to make my way out the door. Instead, Orfeo casually straightened himself up, blocking the exit.

You have got to be kidding me.

“I'll just-um-” I burst out. Suddenly the crate had gained an extra twenty pounds, and I set it on a nearby table, jerking my head over to Orfeo’s direction. “On second thought, I don’t need the pastries. Everyone at the café can starve. Now, if you’ll excuse me-“

Orfeo neared, and his once grouchy expression had vanished, replaced; the softness of the pinks and purples of the newborn dusk penetrated through the glass window, coating the left side of his strong face. His wavy hair nestled along his forehead, and somehow darkened his eyes.

“I’m not going to ask you again-“

"You are...really bad at taking compliments, aren't you?" he pressed his right palm against the wall, standing right in front to create a shadow over me, "Yet somehow I find this extremely enjoyable to watch you squirm around, trying to find a way around this.”

“W_hy_ are you _like_ this.” I voiced profoundly, “Orfeo, _move_.”

"Why _should_ I?" He enunciated along with an advancing step, "You don't think I've noticed you checking me out?"

“W-What? I’ve _never_ checked you out!”

**You’re a terrible liar.**

My eyes searched his face, mere inches away as he slightly leaned, “The fumes of your kitchen have gotten into your head.” Another step back, and another.

"Hmph. You can be so noisy. Wonder if you're like that all the time...or its just with me," Orfeo scanned my face, holding a long gaze. The heart of my palms curled to hide away the slight sweat.

“….Why are you looking at me like that?” I demanded, but I was unclear of why I had hushed my tone. Was it because subconsciously I was embarrassed of what he had just said, or was it the idea that we were both alone, with two children in the backroom unaware of our quarrel? Either way, we didn’t look away, and I couldn’t help but see the tiny flecks of crimson floating in his irises, silent wind-chimes as they rotated in place.

".........Because they're pretty, your eyes," he huskily whispered.

“You’re out of your mind.” Abruptly he leaned, and one of the small indents of the shop's wall hit my back. One hand swept to flatten against it, the other meeting another solid form: Orfeo’s chest. His left arm lifted, planting above my head and his right set on the wall beside him.

Was I missing something here?

Did something go over my head?

Did he even hear what I said?

He was so close, the scent of an airy musk sweltering along his neck, as it pulsed with his very steady heartbeat. His eyes rolled down away from my look, and rested along my nose and hidden mouth. The dark threads that had been absent flocked to life, encircling his chest and softly probing along my bare forearms.

"Hmph....is that really all you have to say?" he lifted his gaze back up, relentless in their vindication.

This wasn’t curiosity.

This stretched far beyond that.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea-” I tried to dissuade.

“Never one to make good ones,” he urged, and in a flash did the darkness take hold. I could almost hear it, shuffling in place; a moment later Orfeo’s back oozed, and these tattered, transparent dark wings stretched out with a sharp snap. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Orfeo-“ he was right in front of me, and out expelled a hot exhale, my chest attempting to level my racing heart. His eyes flickered at that. “If you’re going to be persistent…”

"You're not fighting back." He observed carefully. Preying. Undeniably curious. "So...maybe I wasn't all that wrong to assume after all..."

“Jaq and Oya are still here-“ my head scrambled for any straw in view, and I felt the harsh breeze of the day. The minimal blush had imploded all over my face, holding my logic at bay and emphasizing the swelling lump of the boiling cauldron in my stomach. My fingers pushed, able to feel the rigidness that overtook Orfeo’s body. Within the confinement of his loose blouse was the center of his existence...and it _yearned_. Siren itself. “_Corvus_,” the name hit his parted lips.

Then....he smirked lightly, and reached up. Digits sinking in, and touching the ends of my escaped, red locks. The slight movement sent a shiver across my shoulders, then to the back of my neck up to the center of my head.

“Maybe...another time. When there aren't kids haunting us from the next room-“

I yanked the hood almost over my eyes, “I hate you so much-“ I moved myself away from Orfeo and snatched the crate.

I headed out the door.

"I'll be seeing you around then,” I heard him say, despite how far I had gotten.

And his elegant tone swept into my ears.

My chest throbbed; the wooden crate crushed in my grip where it slightly splintered on its left-hand side. The alley’s shadow consumed me, hid me away from the rest of the city as I did my best to recollect my thoughts. Reground my foundation.

With a crack bowdlerized right in the center of it.

_“Things just happen sometimes. Is that wrong?”_

God. Damn. It.


	13. Le Calme Avant la Tempête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one month? Say it ain't so.
> 
> But yes. Despite the pages this has, I personally didn't think it had much to warrant an entire month of waiting (though the title itself is an indication of what's in store). Hopefully you enjoy it, and we'll see you at the beginning of the next month, back on schedule!
> 
> Thank you for the reads/kudos! Take care, and until next time.
> 
> Sincerely, 
> 
> Keys

The day had settled, and so had Arno’s nerves. A great weight sanded off his shoulders, letting him intake the mild atmosphere and the inviting chatter and laughter his comrades gifted him with. It reminded him well of how he spent the lazy evenings with Elise.

And how he still missed her.

When she would play the melodies she liked rehearsing on the piano (despite disliking the lessons most of the time). Arno would seat himself next to her as he observed her slender fingers dance along the keys themselves; a ballet on their own, every step releasing a whimsical echo. She would try to teach him, but it would only end up with him playfully smashing the white teeth of the instrument, and pretend he was the world’s greatest piano player. And she would laugh, tell him he was perhaps the worst performer that ever lived in the century….but they’d still keep playing. Still laugh.

Before she left to be the woman she wanted to be.

_“Father wants me to learn all I can. You understand, right Arno?”_

Why did she need to go to school if they had so much knowledge in the manor?

_“I’ll be back for the holidays, I promise.”_

Why did she keep making promises she couldn’t keep?

_“You’ll understand one day, Arno. Why things are the way they’re supposed to be.”_

Would have saved them a lot of trouble if she had just revealed she was a Templar in….whatever this mess was.

Alone.

He was left mostly to himself, as the servant and housekeeper of _de la Serre_’s manor where the elder maids made him tend to the laundry and dish cleaning-

_“A young man like you has to be put to work, or what else are you good for??”_

Where he tended to the garden, the mustangs, and the silverware (and their tedious placements on the dinner table). Where he would drown himself in the disposable literature the library and studies offered him: about the arts, the importance of their existence, the immense work it took to make one color-

_“A young man like you has to get his hands dirty; none of this reading!”_

The way a blade was made, the years it took to craft it to perfection from tip to handle despite him never wielding ever in his life; submerged his wisdom in poems and songs that he would hum a tune when he was on his own. Many distractions, but not enough to stop him from wondering-

_“A young man like you has to stop asking questions and just do what he’s told.”_

From asking. From demanding the answers he wanted to the most impossible questions of his life.

The many letters he wrote to his father that would never be read, but how Elise had encouraged it in an attempt to make himself feel better. To make him forgive the past, to move on past it because-

_“That’s what your father would’ve wanted, Arno”._

And yet here they were, separated. Because she couldn’t take her own advice on exactly _that_. It was such a simple life back then.

_Courage, my boy._

But then again…nothing was ever simple since then.

_Son of Charles Dorian, the misfortunate Assassin that received that Precursor Box back in Versailles._

Precursor Box? What was that? And…something about a Templar?

_You can start with a man named Sivert._

Right now, he was distracting himself. Yet again.

“That was hilarious. We should tease Elysia more,” Arno sounded off with a grin, pushing aside the memories. His father’s eyes. Elise’s smile. _De la Serre_’s lifeless corpse. He hit his hands clean from the pastry handed to them by sweet Charlotte from earlier.

"If we all gang up on her, I'm sure we could take her." Stephen teased, bumping his shoulder against Arno's, "Besides, the fall from the balcony isn't that high, we'd be fine!"

"You say it like we're cats." James sat up properly, brushing a finger along Eugene's ear who took refuge on his lap. "Still, quite a rarity that was. I've only seen her smile once before."

"_Makes you wonder if she's loosening up to us_..." Clement acknowledged, finishing the last of his own pastry, "_Do you think she likes us as students? Like it’s not just her job, but actually likes us_?"

“What did Clement say? Don’t leave me hanging,” Stephen pouted. Arno chuckled lightly, but did so. This made the brunette’s eyes widen.

"Hey," Stephen’s playful tone shifted to seriousness, waving his hand once to catch Clement's eyes. "You're doing wonderfully, Clement. I know Elysia sees that, because _I_ see it. I know I'm technically your guys' assistance in teamwork, but as a Master of my old Brotherhood, I'm proud of _us_. You know Elysia by now; if she didn't like us, she'd tell us. Help us improve in what she doesn't like, to help us be better people."

Arno smiled at this.

"_Stephen's right, things could be much worse if she didn’t,_" James translated it all back over, Clement easing in his position with a soft smile. James settled his hands on his knees, gazing up to the sunset sky, "I think it’s fair to assess that Elysia enjoys teaching us. Wouldn’t you want to help someone who wants to get where they want? To achieve what they desire the most?”

All three gazed to the British man, and followed his example to take in the sky’s orange and yellow hues. Blending, a different world in the clouds themselves.

“I think, in her own way, she's shaping us to who we want to be one day. I wonder….if we do the same for her.”

The distraction only got so far.

_Sivert._

Arno feasted his sights on the dazzling, night sky. The gleaming stars scattered like white pearls in black sand. His legs swung with the light breeze, careless and calm. He exhaled with his lithe arms between his parted legs. Tired from the nonstop climbs of the earlier afternoon.

“You’re still here, Arno?”

From the corner of his eye did James emerge, resting his crossed arms on the balcony to his right. Arno simply nodded, not bothering to break his gaze away.

“Today is my last day with your team, before I go to Bellac tomorrow.”

"Ah yes, you'll be spending a few more days with him from what I heard Elysia mention. A part of their agreement and all for the extra help you've lent us." James recalled with a rub of his scruff chin, "Already missing us? I can't imagine Stephen has already gotten into your head."

“Stephen is just…..very sure of himself. It’s difficult to deal with…but I also admire it in a way,” Arno admitted with a small nod. “He oddly reminds me of Bellac; Elysia really does some sort of magic whenever she confronts both of them.”

"I think she just has a way with words." James agreed, scoffing once before sharing a glance to the Dorian again. "Putting aside differences to work together for a common cause is necessary. Elysia merely knows where to meet one another's overzealous boundaries. In saying that, that doesn't mean Elysia doesn't have a few of her own that everyone has to accept."

“I figured,” Arno recalled with a nervous smile, rubbing his neck briefly. “Either way, I’m enjoying both mentors, though I admit it’s less fun when its just me having to hear about Bellac’s past stories of his military days.”

"Does he really dredge that up?" James probed with a slouched shoulder, "Does he start it off with ‘_when I was your age, I was doing ten times the work you're doing now_’? Something of the sort?"

“Oh yeah. Like he can’t wait to tell me I have it easy and that I should be grateful for everything I have now,” he sighed, resting his chin in his hand and shaking his head. “Bless Elysia for never doing that.”

"Even though we're living through a revolution? Bless Bellac for somehow remaining level-headed despite it all," James added in.

“Though….” Arno slouched his head to his right side, “she doesn’t really look that old…now that I think about it.”

James laughed, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder, "You never ask a woman her age, Arno. It only leads to a world of hurt if you begin assuming otherwise."

“I learned that from my sister-“ he winced, reliving the slap at the back of his head, “-a hard lesson she made me go through without telling me the consequences of it. But there I was….a foolish young man believing everything his older sister tells him.”

"You would have fit perfectly amongst the chaps I've dealt with in my youth. Your sister set you up quite mercilessly, I cannot imagine the sort of glee she must've had from watching that disaster."

“Too much,” Arno smiled…though the lingering thought of his main concern couldn’t be suppressed any further. “Hey, James?”

“Yes, Arno?”

There really was no right way to ask, was there? “Remember what _Marcourt_ said?”

".....About that name?" As if James had already read his mind, unless…he was expecting Arno to ask all this time. Especially now they were both alone. "Yes, I do...why do you ask?"

“Do you happen to know anything about him?” Arno didn’t decide to sugarcoat it, meeting his stare. James exhaled through his nose, taking a moment to straighten himself up and face Arno directly.

"Sivert….is a former general of the French military, during which he joined the Templars as a smuggler of sorts.” He rubbed his neck at this, “He’s kind of infamous for funding Haytham Kenway's operations in the Colonies. That's probably the most I've heard about him other than he's a retired man, probably still making dealings with the Templar Order."

“Hmm, sounds like he’s been around,” Arno remarked, though felt James’ stare. He turned his head slightly over, watching the muscle in his cheeks pulsing once from how hard he locked his jaw.

".....Arno, what exactly are you planning to do?" James went straight to the point, "You're not thinking of going off and killing him, are you?"

“No, of course not.” The younger man swung his legs over the barrier, properly setting himself before his comrade, “But can you blame me for wanting answers? To know who killed my step-father?”

James’ face dropped slightly, and the happier demeanor they both shared seemed lost from his eyes; he _must _have anticipated this conversation then. Arno felt somewhat…..guilty, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when this is the closest he’s ever gotten.

"No, I can't, but you have to be mindful in the sort of field you're walking into." James reminded, resting his back against Elysia’s balcony doors. "It couldn't possibly have been one man to stage a coup of this level. There are surely others, probably with even greater influence amongst the Templar Order. They've made it clear that they are also willing to throw one another to carnage if it meant securing a stronger foundation to the coup's cause. You could potentially be marching to your own death."

“….I have to know the truth, James. Elise deserves to know the truth…” his throat burned at this, but he shook it off, adamant to his core. “You have to understand…in some way.”

".....Perhaps, god willing if I try to assess it....but know your bond to others, Arno. One way or another, they could be affected by the choices you make. I tell myself that all the time to try and keep myself out of trouble.” James rubbed at his neck again, this time more roughly, “My fiancée would never forgive me if I don't come home. I can only imagine your sister might feel the same if something were to happen to you too."

Arno said nothing.

James sighed, "I'm not dissuading you from doing it....but keep it in mind."

“I understand,” Arno rolled his shoulders with his eyes in unison. “I’ll be careful. Will that reassure you?”

The British man quirked his lips, eyes assessing, “…It'll have to do."

“It’s getting….rather late,” Arno lifted the paralyzed pocket-watch, opening it briefly then closing it just as quick, “I’ll see you around, James.”

“Likewise.”

Arno bowed his head, “Thank you for listening to me.” He strode toward the entrance of the Training Room, palm on the handle. Before he could turn it-

“And Arno?” James called out.

Arno paused, but turned his head, blinking.

“…Don’t get yourself into any trouble, okay?” James advised.

Arno couldn’t read his expression, but nodded anyways.

\+ - + - +

_A small snicker._

_My eyes stirred, but I couldn’t open them._

_“Red.”_

_Mouth parted, and I tasted steel along my teeth._

_A glimmer of crimson. Shaped like crescent moons, awakened in the deep depths of obscurity. Plagued. _

_“Where are you going, my dear?”_

_I grunted, and felt the pressure of something solid against my neck. Pinning me down. But I wasn’t afraid._

_I knew what I had done, what my hands had committed themselves to._

_And how they recognized the width of his neck. The way it stretched, the way his apple swam when he swallowed. _

_The way he struggled in my grip when I had pinned him down so long ago._

_“Would you really do that to me?”_

_My fingers dug, and the red wine seeped, coating his front, his lungs._

_“Would you really hurt me?”_

_To make him stop breathing._

_“You really think I would’ve left you all alone?”_

**But they did leave you all alone.**

_Lavender._

_It seeped through the dark vines of oblivion._

_And they reached._

_And stretched._

_And how I-_

_“If we choose this…..we can’t go back.”_

_My eyes opened._

_“It won't be easy...but it’s a start."_

_But something was wrong._

_As if two people embodied one physical form, one designated place that the galaxy had conjured up in my mind. Both dark hair, both towering and very, very direct….but yet so different. _

_One hand, gentle and kind, while the other cracked the very glass that dared to sheathe it away from my mind. The purple reminded me of the flowers in the fields, and the red was the blood they seeped when they all dropped to the ground, lifeless with one mere look from me. Only one was here, but neither could live without the other. _

_“What’s it going to be, Elysia?”_

_My heart was racing. I couldn’t breathe, the same way I was always breathless around him-_

_“If you choose this, you can’t go back.”_

_So long ago it was._

_“I’m going to need an answer.”_

_And something frantic clung to my eyes, to my throat that it strained to breathe. _

_“I don’t like to play games, Elysia.”_

_The other presence was dark and menacing._

_“Neither do you.”_

_But if there was something I could take from it…._

_When I opened my mouth to answer_

_And the heavy weight pressed against my back_

_Nothing came out._

I’m glad I was awake.

I dressed simple, a clean blouse with my chest bind underneath it. The hood was loose over my head, and I debated with the freed curls when I caught sight of the red scarf set over my chair. It was still slightly damp; they must be doing laundry despite how early it was.

I wanted nothing to do with it this morning.

So, I (gladly) left it alone, secured my boots, and headed to the Brotherhood hideout. I met with the mentors (Beylier and Quemar left an anxious absence in the room) on the second floor. We discussed diplomacy and tactics (though it was obvious the name ‘Shay’ wouldn’t be spoken this time around), and then parted from the meeting with little to no conflict at our own tasks. Bellac and I exchanged a few words and jokes about the Dorian, I greeted Sophie who looked far more rested than usual, and gave Mirabeau my reports; once I gathered the documents I needed, I left.

But the dream had managed to slip through my guarding distractions. Mild interruptions got on my nerves, and I did my absolute best not to linger on the protruding thoughts.

I got to work, scribbling and scratching away words and sentences. My brain chugged to make the language cohesive in writing, and crossed out words I somehow repeated without knowing, or I misspelled…

_“You’re cute when you’re not grouchy.”_

It was frustrating. _All _of _this_ was frustrating.

Of not being able to….decipher any of that. Of trying to figure out…what it meant despite how simple that sentence alone was. Running it through my head again and again countless times; unsure if I had heard the right tone, the right words, if I was unconsciously lying to myself or if Orfeo was trying to make a fool out of me in some way I was unprepared for. If he was tricking me. The reason _why_ Orfeo would even dare say it in the first place.

And how one simple gesture invited so much memory I didn’t want.

I lived freely and without a thought of _him;_ for the past couple of years I was free of the burden, but now that this…_THIS_…it was a problem.

The more I could hear _his_ voice in the hundreds that took refuge in my mind.

**He’s never going to find you.**

I knew it was truth…but why did it have to hurt so much **still**?

**He’s moved on, and left you behind.**

It was impossible to sleep.

**He’s had children without you.**

I hated it so much.

**He made his dream without you.**

If I never left?

If I had stayed behind and lived out my life?

If I had been stronger before to take care of Raveza?

What if-

All these stupid “if” questions. I hated them. I fucking hate them.

I couldn’t afford for it to linger.

I was fine.

Everything was fine, until **he** said that.

**Then, do something else and stop complaining.**

I nodded to myself, though I hardly felt the quill in my grasp.

Was this sentence sensible?

Did I report everything I needed to Mirabeau?

Was this coffee too sweet or too bitter-

_“I think I need to have something sweet with this.”_

I sighed.

Was I that clueless?

No….was it possible I was simply reading this all wrong?

Fuck. Fucking shit-

“Hey, are you listening-“

I lifted my face. The café wasn’t open it-

It was Orfeo (When the fuck did he walk in???), looking toward me with a curious glint in his eyes. How long had he been standing there??

“…If you’re looking for Charlotte, she’s in the back,” I swiftly replied, minding to the unimportant documents simply to look away from him.

**Hmph. Convenient.**

This was bad.

"Well it's a good thing you're partially responsible for things here. I don't have to go that far." Orfeo strutted a bit to the side, pulling a seat from another table. My eyes glided up his arm, and there I saw the muscle of his tan, scarred limb tighten from his hard grip.

**Mmmmmmm.**

QUIET.

I stared at him, and I hated seeing how his eyes shined from the rising sunlight from the outside world. Around his stomach was a waistband, tied securely where he had one of his chef handkerchiefs hang. His legs parted to let him sit properly, despite the chair being the opposite way.

"What's the sour look for?" he narrowed his distracting eyes in question.

**Starstruck, are we?**

I felt the corner of my eye twitch.

“What do you need?” I changed the subject.

"….I need to ask a favor," Orfeo answered, resting his arms on the head of the chair, leaning forward to rest against them.

“…..Clarify,” I played along.

"I need someone to keep an eye on the shop. We need to head to the countryside for a week,” he didn’t seem to thrilled about giving me the news; his nostrils flared a little to evoke his displeasure.

“A week?” I gave a look to him, arching a brow. “That’s asking for a lot.”

"It is and I don't trust Henri _not _to take advantage of it. Pierre is staying behind with Maduka and Oya...that's just a spell for trouble but Giselle doesn't want to leave Jaq alone for that long."

“I’ll inform Charlotte about it then, and see what she can do for you.” I gestured a hand out to his direction. “When are you leaving?”

"Tomorrow."

I gave him a curt stare, thudding the quill against the table, “Are you serious.”

**This man is nothing but trouble.**

"It's a matter we have to resolve personally." Orfeo disclosed with a sigh, "We would leave sooner if possible. Giselle's the one being responsible here; I’m just the messenger or else we would’ve been gone already."

“Ugh……fine. I’ll tell Mathias. He should be coming in soon.” I shook my head briefly, darting my eyes to the papers again. “I won’t forget so you can stop giving me that look.”

"What look?"

“Your disbelieving one,” I retorted.

He squinted, "....I'm not the one that looks ready to strangle someone."

My eyes _rolled_, “Your point?”

"....Are you mad at me?" he questioned a moment after. The back of my neck flared.

“No, I’m not mad at you,” I flourished with a hand, not bothering to look up to him. I skewed the truth, “Merely sleep-deprived.”

"Uhhhhh huh," he drawled, not entirely convinced but allowed it to continue, "Surely, something kept you up late last night." The sultry edge at the end of his sentence made me fire a look to him, and seeing him gaze at me with no hint of fear only agitated my Twilight-

**Should teach him a lesson, Fox.**

Why the fuck did you say it in _that _tone??

Orfeo rebuked, "You've been hanging onto that, haven't you?"

My god, he was stubborn.

I SIGHED, standing up and trying not to punch my fist straight through the wooden table itself, “It’s like you try to find ways to push my goddamn buttons.”

"Do you really dislike me that much?" Orfeo inquired in genuine fashion, and leaned his face a bit more.

“No-“ I resisted, “If I did, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.” I felt the crinkle of warmth prickle at my cheeks.

"Oh? So you have the ability to smite your enemies? Or is it something lackluster like shoving a blade at someone in the dead of night?" Orfeo rested his cheek against his palm. He hummed lowly, studying my face with a lazy smile.

**Ooohhh?**

My lips pressed, “Very funny.” I picked up the clay cup, almost digging into the solid sediment itself with my very-sharp nails. I shifted my focus to the counter where a pitcher of brewed coffee had been pre-made, and poured myself a new cup. I felt Orfeo’s eyes follow me, but I dared not to turn to see where _exactly_ he was looking.

**Because you know where he’s looking.**

No, shut up-ugh, why was I internally arguing with myself???

I must be out of my mind to even think he….I had to be wrong. About all this.

“The hexing plan I thought about earlier is starting to convince me.”

"Didn't think you were the type to be up to no good." Orfeo hummed out longingly. At least he didn’t doubt I could. “Imagine how Jaq would feel-“ he stood up at this, moving the chair a bit to the side, “-would break his little heart if he knew his best friend had been cursed.”

“You can’t play that card anymore,” I retorted. I took my drink, and strode over to the table again, “Also you’re not his best friend.”

"I don't have to be his best friend to warrant enough concern." Orfeo waved a hand, "I mean...I could also lie and say it spreads. We'll see how long he can last."

“You’re so chaotic; you can’t leave anyone in peace,” I placed the cup on the table, staring at him with scrunched brows. “……..What are you up to, Orfeo. Why are you so stubborn on sticking around?”

"Me? Being stubborn? I don't know what you're referring to,” he gave an innocent look, though his compromised mouth proved otherwise,

“Yes you do, you know _exactly_ what I’m referring to,” I pressed. A dark loom blanketed his eyes, and a mirthful snicker rumbled in his lean throat. “If being stuck with you for the past couple of months has taught me anything, it’s that you’re not dumb and you’re always up to something.”

"Look at you, being so observant. You deserve a medal." Orfeo held a hand at the edge of the table, "Do you think I'm up to nefarious deeds? That I'm preparing some wicked tricks up my sleeve?"

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I noted, crossing my arms firmly. “It’s going to bite you in the ass one day.”

"A good player doesn't show his hand until it counts." He wagged his finger, then pointed toward me, "I should be asking you something then...why are you so concerned about what I'm doing?"

“Uh—no reason.” Fuck. “I’m just…letting you know. Because you need that reminder.”

"....Because **_I_** need that reminder, is that right?" His voice was low, "I'm only a simple baker, what's the most I can possibly do? Hmm, Ms. Assassin?"

I scoffed, an annoyed smile plastering on my face. “And who was the one who helped Ms. Assassin take all the grains for his shop?”

"Curious to learn about my thieving past?" he hinted at with a smirk.

My head inclined in his direction. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“You’re not going to tell me just because,” I bit the inside of my mouth lightly. Observing him. “You’re going to want something in return.”

**Now we’re talking.**

"And whatever do you think I'd want from you?" he requested back.

I didn’t break eye contact, took a step forward enough that I stood right before his chest, craning my head up slightly. His jaw set firmly. The darkness that once sheltered itself along his being dispersed and trickled at our feet, like hovering diamonds kicked up from the ground itself.

I exhaled the words out, “Something I can’t take back.”

That caught a glint in his eyes, leaning slightly down, "Choices, choices. What _ever_ will you make...? If you're that curious to know...I may give you a hint."

“…Sure,” I swallowed. The bubbling tension between us doubled, and I could literally feel his slow breath. My nails curled within my palms, the impatience scraping down my back. “Well?”

He lowered his head right to my ear, the hood doing nothing to prevent it from burning, "After your lot left, I left France to go to the Caribbean and I became a privateer.”

My eyes averted, seeing the swirls of his irises pool and tug me. 

“As you can imagine...privateering didn't exactly pan out.”

The edge of the table suddenly hit my lower back. Orfeo’s arms stretched, locking me in like a caged animal. His lower arms tensed from the force of his solid grip, and I had to press my lips together to level my breathing. But I knew he was looking at them, straight at them despite the hood in place.

Like it didn’t matter. Like nothing around us mattered.

Like our past didn’t matter anymore.

His rough voice expelled out, “So I became a pirate...and I stole everything I ever desired."

“Simple baker…my ass,” I forced the words out. My leg shifted, and suddenly it was between Orfeo’s legs-

His palm clamped and he _pushed_, “….That’s not very nice, Elysia.” And his thumb glided, sending a series of scorching sparks up my limb and straight into my stomach.

“I never said….I was nice,” I exhaled, my balance wavering. And there, our mouths hovered, and his hot breath swam into my cowl, engrossing me in the scent of something tangy, and sharp. Rum. Coffee. A pastry he might’ve had from his café. The dreams he casted aside to wake up today. The darkness that lurked in his core….

His eyes flickered, and I never noticed….how long his lashes were. The sunspots were prominently there, decorating his strong cheeks, and how his teeth tightened when I shifted my balance, pressing my thigh against his front-

“You have no shame,” I whispered, watching his mouth part slightly, and a dark chuckle emit from it. His fingers dug faintly, and they rode up. I exhaled sharply. My mind flipped with my bothered insides.

"I don't." He accepted so casually, "Why would I be if I didn't know what I was doing..." He lowered his tone, "So what does that say about you? Have you no shame? Or is this not direct enough for you?"

The sun residing in my chest imploding with shock waves, making my skin dance and cry. My eyes drew down, and they stared at his lips.

I hadn’t misheard. He really…did say that yesterday.

It was probably the stupidest thing I could do.

Or most likely, the most damning.

But if Orfeo had annoyed me so much, if he had been so insufferable and so annoying...

Why did I hold onto his memory, unlike everything else in my life? Why did I let Arno and Charlotte and everyone else associate themselves with him? When I knew everything that happened? I would’ve left already.

Yet here I was

kissing Orfeo

in this damning café in France.

His lips were rough. Flaming as they moved impatiently, like he had been famished of any physical contact. The table behind me held me steady, my once firm feet sliding beneath me like ice encasing the ground. The gravity of the world jerked, and suddenly Orfeo’s arm was around me, locking me against him. The hood fell back and my liberated curls sprouted along my neck and upper back with a burst. My arm sprung, and my nails dug onto his sleeve, dragging down enough that the rolled up fabric at his elbow was gone, and all that was left to touch was his bare forearm. And it burned underneath my grip.

I was touching him when I wanted nothing but to strangle him the past couple of months.

A testament to a sin that stroked the flames.

He broke the kiss, and relished the way my jaw clenched angrily, and how red my cheeks had gotten. A smug grin broke free a moment after, “Want to know something else?” 

I said nothing, feeling his free fingers twist around the loops and flaps of my outfit. I think he enjoyed my aggravated expression too much, but I couldn’t fight back, not when I was savoring it shamefully. My sensitive arms danced.

"I might have had everything...but there were just some things I couldn't quite...." he rested his mouth right on mine, and my eyes flickered madly. Incoherent when his fingers locked at the hem of my pants, “…Get my hands on out there.”

“You’re enjoying this too much-“ I sighed sharply, repressing the moan he called for, “Mph!”

"I am...you could hardly blame me for it.” He spared another kiss, his bangs sweeping and mixing in with my crimson ones. Sparks of white shapes flooded my closed lids, his smooth lips moving with desired precision. He inhaled every muffled sound in my throat, drinking it like a toxin. He towered enough to make me bend back, my other hand clutching his shoulder so I wouldn’t ram back.

He pulled back, his eyes grazing along my face, around my neck, “Satisfied you've touched the tip of the iceberg?"

My face was entirely enflamed and the back of my fingers tried to hide my cheek away, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be??” I curtly responded.

"Yes, I do." Orfeo fixed the ascot at his neck as he offered me a long stare, "Hopefully you don't set my café on fire while we're gone."

“I make no promises,” I stared back.

"Jaq would be devasted if you did." Orfeo stopped at the door, "Forever."

“...Just......go,” I couldn’t even meet his eyes.

"See you around…..Elysia." And he left with a very satisfied smile on his face.

My eyes glided over, observing his back. And only a moment after until I was sure he was gone that I shuffled my feet over to the cushion seat of the bench, plopping myself down and resting my head back. My hands clamped onto my face, wanting to rip all the hair it latched onto. I wiped my mouth clean, but how little that did.

“Ugh…” The sigh was inexcusably loud, unwarranted for attention. Yet, when I lifted my face up from my mashed eyes, Mathias was standing before the table, eying me with his bag of breakfast in one hand, the other holding onto his briefcase. “…Morning, Mathias.” God did he see any of that?

"A good morning to you as well, Elysia." He observed the empty tables before settling his briefcase upon one, "Did that Orfeo fellow come to receive the deposit at this hour?"

“No…” I shook my head, the trapped cage of butterflies hiding within the deep chambers of my chest. “He’s um…leaving for a week. From _Café Muguet_. They need someone to watch the café while they’re gone.”

"With such little notice?" Mathias didn't hold back the irritated scoff, "It's one thing looking after this café, another one will be a hassle, even if it’s for a week. Does Charlotte know of this yet?"

“No. She’s in the back with Marceline, tending to the laundry.”

"I see." Mathias skimmed a glance around the room before looking down to me, "Are _you_ all right? He seems to leave...an unfavorable impression."

“….It’s nothing.”

He didn’t believe me, “Well...I do presume you are qualified with the sort of skills to....be rid of these types of nuisances." Mathias retreated to get a piping hot of coffee, returning back with a small sip, "Or at least I imagine you do. Surely no one would notice."

“Sure.” I curled my head down, ignoring his watch and the soft slurp of his coffee. He was humming in question, but it was swiftly interrupted from the sound of approaching footsteps. For a moment the hairs on my neck rose, but when the padding of feet softened beside Mathias, I realized it wasn’t the immortal.

The older male grabbed his suitcase, eying the person he was with, "You can handle this situation from here, James. Surely you have a hand better with women." And he left to the back of the café, greeting Marceline as she passed.

James blinked, "Um...are you quite all right, Elysia?"

“…I’ve been staring at the same document for the past hour. How was your morning?” I muffled through the fabric of my sleeves. "Why are you even here. It's your day off."

"If I recall correctly, you had suggested that I should give you a personal evaluation of Arno once our first trial mission was accomplished." James reminded, sitting down and across. Ugh...how did I even forget that-oh god, what if he had walked in during….

"Of course." I nodded, pushing aside the documents and hidden embarrassment, fixing my cowl a bit. I straightened up in my seat, nodding to James to continue, "What's your…assessment?"

"I believe there is room for him to improve as an Assassin. He had me quite worried at first when Stephen and he clashed over Bellac. I thought he'd allow his emotions to potentially jeopardize the mission.”

“Noted,” I nodded in agreement.

“Despite his headstrong personality, I've noticed Arno tends to have dips in his confidence and when he does, he'll look upon others for some sort of validation in his actions. Aside from that, he takes charge and the necessary risks when needed. It’s clear he can assess a battle quickly to come up with a plan and act upon it, though he's a bit slow to act upon with others. There is some hope...he worked well with Clement, perhaps that’s a good place to start getting him familiar with before he moves onto Stephen and I."

I nodded at this again, “That gives me...hope. And confirms some of my suspicions I had earlier. Thank you, James.”

"There is...one other thing I noticed." James worked his fingers along his wrist, massaging it in deep circles, "I think it’s clear Arno's dedicated to finding the truth to _de la Serre_'s murder, but I think it'll lead to a deep...obsession."

“I don’t think that’s left to secrecy,” I reminded, and rolled my eyes, “and Mirabeau hasn’t exactly...put some sort of limit to that. That is one of the reasons why he was allowed to join the Creed. I try to repress that memory, honestly.”

"I think everyone has that sort of baggage, Elysia. No one can be spared of that sort of cruelty in life.” James rubbed at his jaw, "...but something has been bothering me about it. If the Templars are divided…I don't know, something seems wrong with this."

“Don’t worry yourself too much about it...if you can,” I replied. “You’ll grow more gray hairs than Mathias at the rate you’re going.”

"Heh...I think it'd be a good look for my uncle’s sake." He ran a hand through his hair, huffing, "Maybe he'll think I've matured."

I shook my head at this, “You’re a lot more mature than you give yourself credit for. That’s why they all look up to you.”

"I wish my uncle would see it that way."

“He sounds like a party, from what you’ve told me before.”

“Ah, I couldn’t remember if I did.”

I shrugged a shoulder, “You mentioned he was…very traditional.”

"Something like that,” James scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “Traditional in the sense that he can only complain that the youth are the problem with the world and all. Should've seen his red face when I left for London; honestly I thought he'd curse my very soul."

“I’d imagine he tried to throw every reasoning he could think of to prevent you from leaving. Telling you that ‘you weren’t ready’, ‘you don’t know how the world works’, ‘you’re unprepared’. ‘You’re selfish in your endeavors, you won’t understand it until you’re older’. Did I get it all?”

"Almost. I'm also disgracing centuries worth of traditions by passing off my responsibilities to my cousins. Like they weren't going to get it in the first place, but he truly had more hope in me then them and...that sort of says a lot."

“He’ll understand, one day. Don’t fret too much about it...”

"I surely hope not." James swallowed, tugging at his collar, "Because...he's coming.”

This was news, “You look absolutely pleased about that.”

“Ecstatic. In regards to that news, I...also came to ask if I'm able to be relieved of some missions for a few days."

I raised a brow, “Should I be concerned? Prepared?”

"Perhaps. I...haven't really spoken to him in two years. My mother is the one that sort of keeps tabs for me when she sends a letter my way. He's...a fairly intimidating man, he trained me to fight before I knew how to properly run. Then to suddenly get a letter from him that he expects to visit me..." James clenched his jaw, "I have a feeling it'll be more than a casual visit. I...will try to avoid introducing him to anyone if I have the liberty to. The less he knows the better. He's just...that sort of man."

“I understand. Take all the days you need; I don’t believe anything of grave importance will come up. And if something does, your uncle will have to deal with it. You can’t please everyone, James. Sometimes people just have to take the hint.”

"Heh, thank you, Elysia. Truly, I'll...try and commit it to memory." James smiled lightly, "Sorry I carried the conversation a bit away, I should have asked if you had any notes for what we should do for Arno in the future."

“Maybe hanging him up on a coat hanger and never getting him down would be a good start,” I noted, rubbing my forehead.

James gave an unamused look.

“What did he do this time?”

I sighed, “....Nothing. I’m...merely creating a scapegoat at the moment.”

He raised a brow. Questioning.

I hesitated, feeling a heavy weight settle on my shoulders, pushing my body to slouch. I almost wished I didn’t have that conversation, “....I told you once...I was in love. A long time ago.”

**Don’t get attached.**

Fuck you, give me a break.

"Yes...you did." James blinked.

“....The baker from _Cafe Muguet_, the one Arno helped Charlotte get contracted with to save the Manor.” I slumped my head back, biting at the words. At my very core. And how it stung when it left my lungs, “I was in love with his older brother. In Tuscany.”

James stared, looking at his hands for a moment when he made a small face too quick for me to fully analyze. "That...has to be awkward. If that's the case.”

I shook my head, “I’ve tried hard to suppress that part of my life away. I never wish to revisit it. Yet here we are, and I….”

James waited, patient man as always.

I bit the inside of my mouth. My cheeks reddened.

“Yes, Elysia?”

I sighed, and my hand mashed against my face, drawing the cowl back, “Er-nevermind.”

"Err....all right? Are you sure??"

“I um…” I must’ve scared him from how still and silent I had gotten. “He was here…earlier and we exchanged…words. You could say. Which in turn…make me question our past relationship with one another.”

"......In a good way or...?"

“…I um…” I crossed my arms firmly on my chest, “……I kissed him.”

"....." He clicked his tongue against his teeth, "...You know...this information you told me now contradicts what you said before...you...kissed him?"

“I’m aware of how it looks, hence why I’m telling you in _confidence_; yes, I kissed him.”

James slowly nodded, pressing his fingers along his jaw, "...Okay."

“…Ugh…” I shook my head, slumping my head down on my crossed arms, “I don’t know, James. We were on differing viewpoints the first time we met, but it all seems…so different now. And I’m unsure of it all.”

"...Well...perhaps it's because you're older now." James offered, "Perspective tends to change the older we get...feasibly you've changed and maybe in turn he's changed too."

“Not that…I want to be rude, but does that also apply to…….” I gestured my fingers open, and waved them once between us, “…You know.”

James squinted, pointing at himself awkwardly while I rolled my eyes, gesturing mildly again. The British man studied the movement with scrutiny, a small 'oh' escaping after. A low hum radiated from his pouted lips, drumming his fingers against the table, "I think it would depend on you. I think there's some people that...don't care, while others would call it blasphemy to…pursue family members. I don't know...from what you've told me so far...is that you were in love once...but does that still pertain now? It sounds like you're no longer with him."

“We…” I frowned, and the memory tried to pierce through me, “…I had to leave unwillingly, to settle something important. I haven’t seen him since.”

James nodded slowly, quirking his lips, "I'm...assuming he also doesn't know where you are either...does he?"

“…I think if he did, I wouldn’t be here, if we’re being honest,” I answered.

"Sounds something straight out of a story..."

“You have no idea.”

James mumbled, "I suppose I should ask realistically: what are the odds you think you'll see him again...?"

“…Slim,” I kept the answer quick. “I don’t know where he’d be but…”

“But what?”

“I’m not the same person I was. I don’t think his feelings would be the same for me, as they were all those years ago.”

"Hmm...it's hard to say." James agreed, "It's a dangerous gamble...on one hand maybe he is the same and maybe you could resume what you had before. On the other hand, maybe you want to cut the teether that keeps all these old feelings suspended. Allow new ones to be able to form instead, no matter who it might be...you know." He gestured his hand, "I think it depends on what your feelings are still like for this older brother. If you think you've changed beyond recognition...then maybe it is best you move on, to start something new." James caught himself rubbing at his neck, "I mean, it's just my opinion. I believe people are capable of loving more than one person in their lifetime. I mean...I've had this talk with my fiancée too before. I told her that if something were to ever happen to me that she should find someone else. No one should spend a lifetime alone despite how much you might have loved someone else."

“That’s…” I looked to him. And he looked back at me, giving me a sad smile. “I don’t love Orfeo. I…it doesn’t come easy for me. Even if I did, how well would it go if I ended up falling for two brothers that couldn’t stand each other’s existence?”

"Depends, a lot can change...maybe if pride gives way, they can learn to forgive." James shrugged, but even then I felt the hesitation in his tone, "But I think...it shouldn't matter because this is about you. What you're feeling, what you want in your life...what the world expects of you, even what they want for you shouldn't matter. I mean, it should, but I hope you're following with what I'm saying—” James pressed a hand against his forehead, groaning softly, "What I'm saying is you're the one that has changed Elysia; it's up to you to decide on who fits in the slots that you want to be filled in life. To keep or to hold in hand, as friends or love; life is this strange thing we shouldn't take for granted...it can give us the worst of pains and the greatest of joys....it all depends on how we react to it."

“If I only knew what to do, James…” I relented, gazing mindlessly to the empty café. “You make it sound like it’s an easy thing…”

“I...apologize if I'm being bold but....that look worries me of yours, Elysia. I've never seen you so openly conflicted.”

“That’s new, coming from you.”

"Well you know I always worry about things.” James probed his chin upon his knuckles, gazing wistfully towards the windows of the café, “I don't know...I always assumed you've had everything together. You always knew what to do during intense operations and never yielded under harsh encounters. Yet, now that you actually have been lowering your guard...I'm not sure how you've managed to do everything for so long the emotional strain of it all."

“Not willingly, I hope you know that.” I took a long drink, letting my fingers freely scratch at my forehead and moving the cowl slightly back to do it comfortably, “Either way, it’s safe to say that all of this is…unprecedented, and I’m struggling on how to proceed.”

"I would suggest taking a step back from all of it to be honest. I assume it's...a bit too much for you to process. Look back on it when you have a clearer head."

“Is a week enough?”

He raised a brow, “What do you mean?”

“Something about…leaving for an entire week,” I waved my hand, sighing. “So someone has to keep an eye on the café during his absence.”

"Sort of irresponsible to leave an establishment like that…hopefully it’s not a hassle for Charlotte to deal with."

“She adores him; she made me bring him coffee once,” I rolled my eyes.

“Isn’t it because this is a café?”

My hard stare centered at him, wrath swarming my face for two seconds.

James swiftly held up his hands defensively, leaning back in his seat, “I’m wrong, you’re right. I apologize wholeheartedly—“

“Whose side are you on??”

“Obviously the side where you are RIGHT.”

“So help me, the Dorian is rubbing off on you.”

“No no no, not at all,” he was doing his best to hide his snicker.

“Perhaps I won’t give you the good news I received this morning,” I cleared my throat, and straightened up in my seat.

"Aww, and after all that you had entrusted to me??"

“Only because you’ve put up with my shit for the longest.” I skimmed through the documents until I pulled out the right one, sealed with the Creed insignia and signed by Mirabeau...and me. I placed it on the table in front of his opened arms.

His inspected the seal, then it clicked, his eyes shooting up to me, “…What’s this?”

“Your mark for Master rank has been approved by Mirabeau himself, this early morning. I was informed to keep it a secret, but the ceremony is next week.”

He quickly took the papers in his hand, skimming through the passages in French, a smile breaking along his lips. He didn't dare look away from the paperwork till he was finished, looking up incredulously to me, "Elysia, I—really? I can't believe it! I hadn't imagined it would happen so soon!"

“You’ve shown explicable discipline and effort. Beylier put in a good word for you whenever he could; the last mission carried out for Dumas was a large win for the Creed, and Mirabeau couldn’t say no, if he wanted to.” I stood up at this, gesturing James to follow. I stood in front of him, and held out my hand, “Congratulations, _Master _James.”

James stuttered on his next words, exhaling heavily and merely took my hand to shake firmly, "Thank you, Elysia."

“You’re welcom—” my eyes widened, and the next second the air blurred- “Hgn!”

James’ scent surrounded me, fresh and wet oak coating his neck when my face brushed near it. His long arms encased around my back, his tall back hunching over to properly grip me around despite how close I was to his height. The pulse of his heart raced through his robes, and it intertwined with his small, jubilant chuckle. Almost as if the freckles themselves turned to fire themselves.

“Thank you so so much, Elysia!”

And the voices in my head vanished. Nonexistent as we stood before each other. And how my heart leapt at the peaceful silence.

“...You’re welcome, James,” my glimmering eyes smiled, and my arms moved along with the emotion; they wrapped around James’ sides, a small pat following after. “You earned it.”

\+ - + - +

Beylier wasn’t always a patient man.

He knew the cards he was dealt with at a young age, when his mother chided him for speaking his mind whenever he dared cross paths with the younger, lighter boys that were his age. When he stood up for himself, for her, for his friends. It was almost surely a losing battle from the start, from the second he opposed their oppressions. When he dared breathe the same air they did, when he dared to live a peaceful existence and they deemed it too wicked to bear.

“That’s how the world works, my boy.”

“I don’t accept this; just because it is the world doesn’t mean it’s right!”

He fought tooth and nail for his dignity, and educated himself to the highest degree he could muster. He got older, but the world got crueler. What he was so oblivious to before was a constant reminder every day and every night that his standing as a black man would never be equal to that of a white man if you simply use intellectual words to defend yourself.

He lost so many things, no matter how much kindness or empathy he casted. Beylier knew he was powerless against the hundreds of conditioned minds of a racist-structuralized civilization on his own, and nothing would change overnight. People like that didn’t disappear out of thin air; they hid and bred their dehumanizing ideologies in and out of plain sight. In the shops, at parties, in the administration halls of cities, in the courts and in homes.

The wins would never outrank the losses this way.

So he joined the Brotherhood.

He was wary of its purpose at first, of what it could really do against the masses. Suddenly, he was faced with an atmosphere unlike any other: harmonious co-existence. Every time he walked into the caverns, he was greeted with kindness and gentleness from so many different people of many backgrounds, regardless of skin color. He was so cold at first, for the fear of being wrong. Being caught off-guard was too great of a price to pay for his foolish, wishful thinking.

Luckily, he was proven wrong.

Sophie was the first Assassin he openly talked to, and he remembered so fondly the first time she smiled, and the way her eyes crinkled at his poor, lost-forgotten joke. She was smart and witty, and her hair gleamed with the candlelight no matter how bright or dim the room was. Sophie used to be so touchy with her gloves, she almost unraveled a pair from how much she picked at the leather (“Uncontrollable habit,” she once revealed). So, he bought her a pair and she never picked at them again…and still wore them to this day.

Bellac was a strange man, and admittedly, Beylier didn’t exchange much with him when they first met. He kept mostly to himself, and whatever was exchanged were snarky remarks geared to people who seem to annoy him the most. However, he was a clever and strategic; Beylier revered his motivation and desire to better himself and his students. It didn’t take long for him to be a Master of his own when the time came, and truly that’s when Beylier was comfortable enough to call their alliance a friendship.

Then….Mirabeau, and Quemar.

Something about them….didn’t sit well with Beylier….

And right now was about to be a perfect example of why.

“It’s too brash, Quemar.” The two walked down the rugged aisle with a steady pace, though Beylier felt the pressure of Quemar’s cane hitting the carpet too harshly. “Having visual of Shay’s location doesn’t give us enough information of what he’s planning. We must recon more.”

"As much as I would agree, Beylier, we are on a time-constricting errand. Mirabeau wants this dealt and handled with by the end of the week." Quemar led their direction to the library, "Three of our assassins have trailed Shay Cormac's every movement, his every contact, his potential reasons to be in Paris itself. I'm not sure what other reasons you're looking for to continue holding this up."

“It’s not a matter of keeping this at bay-“ Beylier paused in front of the door, holding out his hand in a peaceful, halting gesture, “Shay Cormac is dangerous, and underestimating him is already one foot in the grave. You know this.”

"I realize this. However, the longer we wait, the more can come to harm our Order. What Shay knows, his years of experience--he may not be of his youth but he can certainly influence the next. A new breed of vicious Templars capable of fighting tooth and nail against the Assassins. I will not be taking the chance to allow his presence to go without a warning."

Beylier hardened his look when Quemar motioned his way inside the room, occupied by Mirabeau who was alone. He finished whatever was in his cup when both Quemar and Beylier approached, clearing his throat.

“Masters,” Mirabeau greeted, though Beylier sensed the heavy weight of his curiosity. “I hope the mission had gone well.” Beylier did the best he could to reason his concerns once their findings had been revealed verbally, but his patience dipped further when he looked to Quemar, eyes wide with a sudden revelation of his next words.

“You have a location on Shay Cormac?”

“Indeed we do, yes,” Quemar bowed his head respectfully. “Master Mirabeau, I ask for permission to proceed on course-“

“I heavily advise against this,” Beylier didn’t waste time, earning a glance from Mirabeau who had folded his fingers, resting his mouth against them, and a hard, hidden glare given by Quemar himself.

"You both seem to be on opposing ends of this confrontation." Mirabeau observed, sitting straight in his seat and fanning his hands across the table, "What seems to be the problem?"

"Do you really have to ask me that?" Beylier retorted, his patience running thin. Quemar pressed his fingers at the bridge of his nose while Mirabeau moved to rub his temples.

"Shay Cormac is a dangerous adversary, I understand. He's a feared predator but he is without resources here in France. The Templars will not side with him, not after what he did to Charles. He threatened their very Order with his charge, leaving as quickly as he came. I am upmost positive many who have survived today will do well to avoid even associating with him."

“How can you be so sure of that? There are many variables we haven’t taken into account, the possibility of him somehow maneuvering around those difficulties, of him being able to provide his own resources-“ Beylier huffed out, “-do not throw away everything we worked for to chance, Mirabeau. If there’s anything I ask of you, is _this_: hold off on any movements on Shay Patrick Cormac, until we’re more equipped, further briefed on his intentions.”

Mirabeau sighed deeply, his knuckles tapping against his wooden desk with deep, labored thumps. It was after a moment of consideration did he look up to the two, "Paris...is in peril, gentlemen, I will not sugarcoat this. You've seen the streets, its citizens; they weep for some sense of reform. I've been working tirelessly here, within the Assembly, and the King. Our resources are being pulled thin as is. If it were me, I would rather pursue more dire crisis here in the city then to stalk after one man." Mirebeau rubbed his temple, "I understand your concern, Beylier, but we are running out of time and options on when to give chase to a man as dangerous as he. If we give him the time of day, he will take advantage of our silence, without a doubt."

“We shall proceed with caution-“ Quemar sounded off, but Beylier heard nothing more, his cold mind arresting itself from hearing anything else. He didn’t feel himself nod either, but he must have done it because now he was alone, standing beside the bookshelf. His heart horridly beat against his ribs.

“Beylier?”

He smiled weakly, shaking his head, “…..I’m tired, Sophie.” He lifted his gaze.

Sophie frowned, “…..Mirabeau is moving forward, isn’t he?”

He said nothing.

But how her touch on his shoulder eased the muscle there, “Let us go. Have tea with me.”

He simply nodded, “….I’d be delighted to.”


	14. Missteps, Mishaps and Misfortunes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're barely halfway of the year and everything needs a reset button. 
> 
> But since we can't do that, we're gonna indulge in a new chapter instead. We reached a heavy event point, and I could safely say we're.....1/4th of the story. Yeah. 1/4th, what the hell Keys? You either go all out for the last part of the trilogy, or else what was the point of getting here. Love or hate it, here's the next part. Ignore any typos, I'll fix em later (probably, maybe). 
> 
> As usual, thanks for your patience. Take care, be safe, until next time. 
> 
> -Keys

It was five o-clock in the morning, and counting. Terribly slow.

The sunset-kissed, colored library was entirely devoid of any body, and the mild scratching of Bellac’s quill was somehow lulling Arno to slumber. Not to mention, the warm touch of the books cradled Arno’s once chill body from the morning fog. His Mentor’s occasional need to grace him with a whole lecture about….something he wasn’t paying attention to was in full affect today; the Dorian couldn’t be bothered to pay attention when he hardly had any sleep the night before.

The imagery of Charlotte’s café was too good to pass up; the atmosphere welcoming and warm, and the way Marceline dressed the bread in sugary delight. Like a magician she commanded the smoke that arose from the caramel-colored shell, and how she cradled each piece in her dark fingers like a newborn infant. Grouped together in an intricate pattern that would put any artist to shame, and make so many bakers envious of her hard-working years. And Arno, being as polite as he could be, thanked her with several bows of his head. Then, when he lifted his piece to his mouth, and took the next bite-

_THUD_. Bellac’s impatient fist clubbed the table’s face.

“Are you listening, Pisspot?”

“Yes, I am. And yes, I understand,” Arno simply replied, glad that his hood was hiding his drowsy appearance.

“…Oh, well then,” Bellac held his own chin at this, seeming astonished of Arno’s quick acceptance of…whatever he agreed to. “Relieved to see your stubbornness isn’t hindering your progression.”

“Mhmm.”

“Dorian.”

Bellac’s formal address spiked a nerve in his back, directing Arno to sit up; it was unusual, or at least unfamiliar for Bellac to speak to him that way. Proper and gentle, like he had some terrible news accompanying next.

“Yes, Mentor?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, about Elysia.”

Arno arched a questioning brow, “Anything specific?”

“Nothing grave,” Bellac comforted, and this provoked Arno’s interest further. “I wanted to know…” the Master Assassin rested an arm on the table, and swept his unoccupied hand up to signal Arno to respond afterwards, “how you are faring with her, and her team. They’re a little…..odd, but if I had to be honest, I wouldn’t put my trust in any other Master to work out this partnership.”

Arno rubbed his lips, hiding his sly smile, “Sounds like you and Master Elysia have some history. Care to share?”

"Not much that you'd find exciting.” _I beg to differ, _Arno thought_._ “Simply put, we were acquaintances once before things took a sour turn." Bellac answered, drumming his callous knuckles against the wooden surface, "Wouldn't have been too surprised if she kept that grudge all these years and pushed it onto you to suffer with."

“Hmmm, she’s not anything like that,” Arno quirked a smile at the memory at the balcony. “From what I have seen. The rest of her team look pretty happy being with her too.”

Bellac scoffed softly at this, “Ah, a bunch of weirdos they are. Not much to pick upon unless you consider James. You know, he was going to be my student when he first pleaded with the Council to consider taking him into the Parisian Order?"

“…Oh?” This was news, nor had James mentioned anything. “So what happened?” _Other than the obvious_.

"Pssh, he was a bit of a smartass then. Had a mouth without a head to think. One look Elysia's way and he just decided he wanted her for a Mentor. Dunno if it was to spite me or what, Elysia accepted it and he practically became her right-hand man."

“Huh…So she didn’t have students until she had James. Which was…..four, five years ago?”

“Something like that.”

“And how long had she been in the Brotherhood since then?”

Bellac replied, “I don’t exactly keep count of other people’s business.”

Arno furrowed his brows at this, piecing together the rest of the information that had been shared with him, “Hmmmm….I wonder what changed her mind.”

“Beats me,” Bellac waved a hand dismissively, “But no matter. I can see you’re doing well. That’s all that matters to me.” He stood at this, and closed the folder to his finished, written parchments, “Walk with me, boy.”

The duo made their way out of the Library and into the main hallway of the second floor. The flow of bodies blurred into one stream when Arno pressed against his temple and eyes just right. He resisted the lusting slumber (he really shouldn’t have slept so late). At arrival, he straightened himself up when they reached the Intelligence Room, occupied by the focused pair Sophie and Mirabeau, and other rookie assassins Arno had seen transverse in and out.

“Good morning, Master Bellac,” Sophie greeted first, followed with a small bow of Mirabeau’s head.

“Mornin’,” Bellac replied, standing across from them with the paper-infested, oak table in the center. He lifted his folder up between his gloved fingers, giving it a swift shake before dropping it gently on the cleared space, “My reports, filled out.”

“Many thanks, as usual,” Mirabeau managed to say, although his exhaustion contested against Arno’s own by a massive degree. “Good morning, Arno.”

“….You look terrible,” because for some reason, there was just no filter programmed in the Dorian’s head. It didn’t help that Bellac was giving him _that _look, you know, the one where his lips pressed, arms tucked across his broad chest, and the twitching at the corner of his lip ready to spew whatever curse word was fitting for the moment.

Sophie was a bit more….polite in that regard, her hands on her hips with her shoulders square and confronting, “…That’s not very appropriate to say to the Grand Master, Mr. Dorian.”

Arno puffed out a small sigh. He took a step back and let the tip of his boot dig at the rug beneath him, his head slightly inclined to focus at the fabric indent his movement made, “I meant no disrespect. I was….merely concerned.”

“I have been managing the Brotherhood, the National Assembly, and the King. Taking them all together has been….taking its toll,” Mirabeau rested his arms behind his back, giving the young man a stern, weary look, “I believe that excuses my appearance, Mr. Dorian.” 

“…Noted,” Arno nodded briefly, curling his fingers silently into his palms, “Apologies.” _Don’t insult Mirabeau again_, he reminded himself. Not that he intended to in the first place. More of a jest. Though that was hard to distinguish the further he remained awake.

“Any word?” Bellac responded a moment later. Though, Arno wasn’t sure what suddenly transpired in everyone’s fixed glances, and why the air became thick with tension within the trio. Like they didn’t want to say what was exactly on their mind.

“No but….we shall receive good news for our patience,” Mirabeau replied with a pressed smile. “There is one favor I must ask of you today.”

Bellac waited.

Mirabeau’s thick fingers combed for the right, corresponding folder, but Sophie was already a step ahead and handed Bellac the desired one, “It is a mission, and it must be done today during the time of Mass in _Notre Dame_,” she replied.

Arno observed Bellac grumble a bit as he flipped through the contents, then his eyes narrowed abruptly, followed with a stare up to Mirabeau, “_Sivert_ has finally come out of hiding, eh?”

Arno’s body was slapped awake, a red sting throbbing at the center of his back. Alert, his eyes controlled to not give himself away, not to make himself flail in surprise of his newfound knowledge. He remained perfectly stone, respectfully in line and unbothered while his organs trembled in his skeleton prison.

“He will be heading to _Notre Dame_ to meet a contact there, though unsure of where, exactly. We suspect it ties to what the Templars are up to; it will finally give us insight of their silent vendetta.” Mirabeau replied, taking a seat on the creaking chair, “You will learn his secrets, and when you have done so, bring him Peace, Master Bellac, with the accordance of our tenants.”

“Gladly,” Bellac answered, and placed the folder back on the table. “I shall make my way now. Come, Arno.”

“Be careful, Master Bellac,” Sophie cautioned, and resumed speaking with Mirabeau once they were out of earshot.

In the meantime, Arno’s mind rushed with this new possibility-

“We’ll be parting ways here, Pisspot.”

-his chest deflated, and every possible excuse sprinted to make sure he and Bellac were not to be separated.

Arno eased beside his Mentor, resisting grabbing his arm in desperation, “Parting ways? It’s bright and early, what else do I have planned for the rest of the day?”

"Find a mission, there's always a rumor or two going around for a Templar that needs to be taken care of." Bellac caught Arno's hastened adjustment at his side, raising a brow, "What? You think you're capable?"

“Well, you’ve taught me almost everything you know,” Arno scrambled for a persuasive, logical answer, “And it’s only fair if I finally show you what I’ve learned, from both you and Master Elysia.”

"Tch." Bellac paused and gave him a look over, a stern scowl taking place. He took a few moments mulling over the request, muttering something foreign as he threw a gloved hand up. He nodded his head for a moment, then relented, "All right boy, let’s see what you're made of. I'm not going to hold your hand forever, so you better have taken something to devise your own plans. Let's see if you have what it takes."

_Notre Dame_ chimed heartily within Paris’ heart, as if the sound itself were a siren that compelled the citizens to flock over to its doors in droves. The appointed bell ringers on the ground below redirected and enlivened the crowds. Despite the thrown and lit debris of the night’s protest, most of it had been pushed to the side to give _Notre Dame_ it’s clean, regal appearance.

Bellac had led them through a route to a rooftop where they were able to scan the vicinity meticulously, and engaged Arno to memorize the posted guards and entry points. Kneeling, Arno got a good look of the foundation; his newfound motivation was definitely not something he was going to pass up.

Arno internally reassured himself, and faced Bellac with a straight expression, “I know this might sound rather….impulsive-“

“What is it?”

“What if I proposed to take this mission….on my own?” Arno pushed, feeling Bellac’s vigilant eyes search his face. His thick brows stitched together, mouth a hard line. Battling.

“…..You sure you want to do that?”

In hindsight, it wasn’t a smart idea; going after a man who had evaded capture for the past two to three years and had a higher amount of skills was….daunting, but that wasn’t going to dissuade Arno from trying. Not when he was so close.

“Yes, I do,” he cemented his adamant persistence.

Bellac got quiet, but it wasn’t long until he answered, “…Let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening.”

“….If I let you do this, it is because you will do what needs to be done,” Bellac sliced his gloved hand across the air, preventing Arno from interrupting, “That _means_ you kill _Sivert_, and _Sivert_ alone. No reluctance boy, not like the other times when we’ve come across other opposition. Any other hinderance, any other kind of consequence will reflect on me….and that’s something I’m not going to let go unchecked.”

Arno waited, ignoring the heated impatience climbing at the back of his neck.

Bellac’s eyes locked onto the church, a deep sigh expelling out, “….Do you understand?”

Arno didn’t flinch, “I understand.”

Bellac closed his eyes….yet opened them a seconds later, “If you fail…”

“I will not.”

He debated again, jaw tight where the muscle in his cheek swam.

“I will _not_ fail, Master Bellac.”

“….Fine.” The acceptance settled Arno’s nerves, although the burden of perfecting this mission had doubled in necessity. There was no room for error.

“Do you have a description of what this _Sivert_ might look like?” Arno probed, giving Bellac a side glance.

“Usually likes to hide that god-awful face of his with a top hat, and huge belt across his torso, where he holds his sword,” Bellac replied, swiping his arm downward his chest to replicate the accessory. “It’s been a long time since I got a last look at him. Use your best judgement.”

Arno hummed in thought, standing up, “Anything else to keep in mind?”

"Study your surroundings, come up with your own plan of action. There's always room open for opportunity." Bellac instructed. Arno shifted, though he halted when Bellac had grabbed his shoulder, turning him slightly to him, "And don't get ahead of yourself."

Bellac removed his hold, and inspected Arno scaling down the building, and camouflage himself into the crowd.

Touching base with the road, Arno set his sights on the high structure, memorizing the stone edges he once climbed on, and building his plan from there. He flowed with the body traffic, keeping a close eye on the watchmen that roamed the streets. Mostly in groups, they were eyed judiciously by the citizens themselves; the building tensions between the common-men and authorities were obvious, but Arno suspected many were still upholding some sort of peaceful social-code. For now.

Once the area was cleared, Arno moved quickly; garnering the attention of a few, he scaled the wall, latching onto the open edges and bulging, gothic aesthetics with ease. He grasped the feet of a gargoyle, and was finally on his feet to face one of many rose-windows along the south side. He strode, eyes swiftly catching the keyhole of one of them, hidden in the shade from possible intruders.

He hopped up to the ledge, balancing himself skillfully as he grabbed onto the metal bar beside. His left hand flexed, and the hidden blade shined; he dipped the tip within the slot, and battled with the locking mechanism.

“C’mon….work with me….” Arno grumbled, adding further pressure, until- “Yes!” The rose-window vibrated in place, and opened with ease by Arno’s command.

His boots thumped softly against the stone floor. His back hunched to keep him out of sight despite being alone on the second, balcony floor. His legs and feet adjusted, and Arno’s controlled weight made him deadly silent above the gathering crowd of Mass beneath; the wooden benches creaking and the priest declaring for cooperation were distraction enough.

It was only thirty more minutes until it rang eight o-clock. He had to find a way to get to _Sivert_.

Arno made way to the entire backend of the church, making sure the preoccupied organ player didn’t see him before he ducked into the spiraling staircase. On ground level, the pushed chairs and thrown blankets drying amongst the stacks provided good cover, including one large desk against the wall. A set of hushed whispers alarmed him instantly and Arno wasted no time sliding into the opening of it. Out of view, Arno patiently paused and descried the two men arriving in hushed strides and halt a few yards away. Once out of the public’s eye, they spoke freely and clearly enough for Arno to listen in.

“_You have secured the cathedral_?” a man with a feather hat and messy, collared shirt interrogated to a disguised guard accompanying him.

“_Oui, monsieur_.”

“_Tell Sivert I will meet him inside the confessional booth. Quickly._” The sentry bowed his head briskly, and left. The lone man spit to the side, and followed suite in the same direction. Arno peered his head out, and sighed in relief to see he had not gone far. There it was, a confessional booth tucked between two stone pillars with the morning sun’s rays cascading along the golden rim of it. The hat bearer slapped the velvet fabric aside, and Arno could hear him grumbling to himself once he stood right beside the opening.

One quick look to secure the floor, and Arno got to work.

_Knock knock_, “_Monsieur, I’ve lost Sivert_.”

“_Bloody hell! Can’t you do anything righ_-“ the sheet snapped back, “GNN!” Arno’s impactful foot made contact; his hands having clasped the top rim of the booth for the extra swing. The thug slumped back, and remained limp in the chair.

Not for long.

With the man’s body now hidden beneath a stack of furniture, and a blanket thrown over him to avoid any alarms, Arno seated himself inside the dark booth after making sure nothing was out of the ordinary to give himself away. It was ten minutes until eight, though every minute weighed an hour the more Arno sat in dead silence. His hands sweated profusely, and he ran the scenarios of all the mistakes that could follow. Each one with a plan to elevate Arno’s confidence, to steady his erratic heart, to sedate the shiver along his back-

_RING RING RING RING-_

Arno’s brain melted the second the curtain on his side opened-

_RING RING RING RING_.

And there a wide man sat, silent and staring straight ahead.

Arno swallowed, and his eyes searched _madly_ with the little light provided to prove the identity of his target. He kept his face forward as not to alarm the visitor, but it literally took every fiber of Arno’s being to remain absolutely and perfectly still.

“_Sivert_,” Arno sounded off, deepening his voice to mimic the unconscious man from before. For a second, he was sure the man called his bluff, and Arno prepared himself to dash out and use the escape route he programmed in mind.

But when the man replied, “_Duchesneau,_” Arno was positive this was indeed the man he was looking for.

“…._Everything is in place_,” Arno droned out lowly, locking his fingers together tightly, reciting the exact flick of his wrist to draw out the hidden blade.

“_Lafrenière_ f_inally saw reason, did he_?” Sivert scoffed sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “_Took him long enough. He knew there couldn’t be another way, not with what’s in store_.”

Arno played it out, shoulders tensing with every second, “_I agree; it was only a matter of time before he came to that conclusion_.”

“_Ahh….it’s been so long since we laid our plans_.” Sivert chuckled, and settled back with a satisfied smile. “_It’s time to finally shift the board, and wretch it out of the elites; the people of France are not the only ones battling injustice_._ Far too long have the de la Serres reigned control of the Templar Order_.”

And then, did Arno realize, an abrasive sensation fueled his upset stomach. Infuriated by this man’s mere voice alone. That the man sitting beside him might be his step-father’s murderer….and was completely unaware that Arno was about to deliver the deserved, over-due fate.

Arno resorted to not saying anything, his scoff sounding like an affirmation for Sivert to continue, “_You remember, the party is tonight with the Templar from the Americas_.”

“…_I remember yes_,” Arno narrowed his eyes, taking in every bit of information given to him. “_Has he arrived_?”

“_He will later tonight_,” _Sivert_ revealed with a flourish of his gloved hand. “_Together we’ll put the last step in motion_.”

“_And that is_…?” Arno’s chest tightened, the corner of his eye zeroing in on his target.

“_Quite simple_,” Sivert grinned, his eyes gliding over to the screen between their seats, “_Ridding of the last piece of the chessboard: Élise de la Serre_.”

Arno’s body spun in place, and his equipped arm retracted, “_I don’t think so_.”

Sivert’s eyes swung open, but even with the lift of his arm, the hidden blade pierced across his flesh easily and dove straight into the airway of his neck. The intricate, clay designs around the screen broke on impact of Arno’s forceful thrust, his hood flying back to reveal the gritting teeth of his reddened face. Arno’s upper body was now propped out from his booth, his free hand slamming down against Sivert’s furrowed forehead. The top hat he once wore rolled out of the booth from the scuffle. Sivert tried to kick his feet out to garner attention, however his will to live was no match for the bestial wrath that possessed Arno’s soul.

The young Assassin glowered down to his bulging-eyed prey, ignoring the hand that tried to push him off, “_De le Serre was my father, and you took him from me! Remember my face_!” He didn’t budge.

Sivert’s limp limbs squirmed for rescue, and his throat gurgled out miniature crimson geysers from how much blood clogged his throat. His eyes scrambled for the sun itself, but Arno made sure to deliver the cold death he promised him. Not until Sivert halted movement, not until Arno physically saw the last shred of human life in his eyes sand away did he let go, and withdraw his left hand. The tremoring hidden blade sunk back into his arm, and his autopilot feet guided him out of the sinned booth. He kept his head low, passing by two monks that rounded a stone pillar, separating themselves from the public service that continued. By the time Arno made it by the entrance of the church-

“_A man has been murdered in a confession booth_!”

Arno was long gone from the ensuing panic of _Notre Dame_.

Bellac had been waiting for him on a different rooftop, a good distance away as to not draw attention, but have a good view of the foundation nonetheless. Arno gave himself one last haul and prompted himself on his feet. He sternly approached while wiping his cheek off, giving Bellac his full attention.

“You handled yourself well,” Bellac crossed his arms, giving Arno a good look up and down briefly, “Got out undetected.”

“I said I would do it, didn’t I?” a slight edge clung to Arno’s tongue.

"Aye, and yet you look like someone had beaten your pet dog in front of your face." Bellac noticed, his expression stone, "What? Was your hunt for this Templar not enough to satisfy your need for _redemption_?"

There were more conspirators in all this, “….We have other things to worry about,” Arno moved the conversation along, stepping aside and facing away from _Notre Dame_, “There’s an opposing group in the Templar Order, and they’re getting aid from the Colonies. They’re planning something big.”

"The Colonies?" Bellac was right at his side, eyes narrowing, "What the devil could they want from them? They’re the reason France sunk as low as it has...didn't think the Templars were that desperate for control."

“It’s not a them,” Arno corrected and eyed Bellac, “Sivert revealed a single Templar is coming from America. Any ideas of who it might be?”

Bellac remained silent for a moment, searching the floor, "No...not exactly. Too many big-shot Templars still lurk in the Colonies...wouldn't know where to start."

“Hmm, then we’re back to square one,” Arno gave a deep sigh, crossing his arms. “…_Sivert_ is dead. That’s the only lead I was able to retrieve.”

"There's always going to be another lead to find, boy. Just have to learn to be patient about it." Bellac studied his posture for a moment, sighing after, "Come on, let's report back to the Council."

Their journey back had fallen to silence as Arno scavenged for mental clues, but came up empty handed by the time they had arrived at the hideout. He remained beside Bellac who announced the good news to Mirabeau, and a part of Arno wanted to tell him the truth of what he had learned….but doing so would only create a new problem for him to tackle.

His desire to seek answers for _de la Serre_ was not heavily shared amongst the Council, he came to realize. Mirabeau and Quemar were engrossed in finding Templar activity, but Arno couldn’t recall any time one of them personally came up to him to ask about his progress. Sophie and Beylier were dealing with their own teams and missions….leaving his mentors as his only options. And….well…..Bellac’s loath for Templars and Elysia’s disregard for his sister’s wellbeing were both something he didn’t want to deal with. This was something he had to figure out on his own….and so he would….

Yet, Bellac kept him close-by, and despite how dismissive he had been earlier to let him go early….his Mentor had changed his mind. For some reason.

Again they were sitting in the library, Bellac having fully occupied Arno into translating and writing out scriptures from an old text. He didn’t argue, focusing on the chore at hand…but also trying to think of a place of where a conspiring group of Templars would station themselves in.

“I’ll be back,” Bellac stood from his seat, and passed by Arno without looking at him, “Stay put until I do.” Arno turned his head slightly over to see him disappear out of the room, the sound of closing doors signaling his departure. Why did it feel like Bellac was…..hiding something?

“You look quite serious.” Arno lifted his face, seeing Master Sophie standing beside him, giving a small tilt to her head to look at him properly.

“Ahh, well…it comes with the territory,” he joked, shrugging once, “You know….the Library.”

Sophie pressed her lips together, giving her brows a raise, “Good observation, then.”

“…Yup,” Arno was somewhat ashamed of the awkward answer.

“…About earlier,” Sophie sat herself across. She gave Arno an apologetic look, her books set at the corner of the table, “Mirabeau has been put under an immense amount of pressure. That’s all.”

“No no, it’s alright,” Arno gave a heavy exhale, his shoulders slouching, “My mouth is not as disciplined as my brain.”

“Who told you that?”

“Too many to count,” he quirked his mouth, though it curled into a smile when he saw Sophie resisting to do the same. “Bellac and Elysia might take the cake though; they don’t sugarcoat their bluntness.”

“I’m sure they mean well,” Sophie insisted, clearing her throat for a second. “They both have a….tendency to show it in different ways.”

“You’re telling me,” he scoffed. “Has Elysia always been like that? Or am I the special case?”

“Hmmm….it’s hard to say,” Sophie drummed her fingers at this, “To be fair….you’re not as difficult as Stephen was.”

“…..Stephen? You don’t say,” Arno leaned slightly, crossing his arms underneath his chest and resting them on the table.

“It’s not my place to say, but yes, they had conflicting differences to begin with,” she nodded gently, cupping her hands together, “But in the end, Stephen had proven his worth, and has been reliable to her, just like James and Clement. I expect nothing less from you.”

Arno’s neck tingled at this, his throat becoming somewhat dry from the sudden expectation, “…..I’ll try not to disappoint, then.”

“Don’t fret, Mr. Dorian,” she stood up at this, and collected her books again, “In due time-“

_THUD._

The doors slammed open, and the few Assassins inside jerked their heads briefly to a rushing Bellac before going back to their work (as if it were a norm for him to constantly always make a ruckus). Arno stood with Sophie, watching his shaken Mentor inhale sharply, and look to the other Master.

“Mirabeau has news.”

The books once Sophie held met the desk again, this time more roughly, “The mission?”

“Yes,” Bellac briefly explained.

“Is Beylier there?”

“He is,” Bellac answered, and she didn’t waste time to separate from the two men before swiftly walking out of the vicinity.

Arno looked to Bellac, seeing a thin coat of sweat across his forehead, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

"Nothing-" Bellac was too quick to answer, noticing Arno's intense observation on his being, "-a mission fell apart, that's all I can say, boy."

“….Do you have to go? It’s okay if you do.” _Please say you do_.

"Tch." Bellac shot him a look, "...Don't get any funny ideas, Pisspot. When I come back, I expect the reports filled out with complete detail, do you understand?"

“Yeah, of course.” He nodded, putting his head down and scribbling onward. He felt Bellac’s feet thud once, and Arno again kept silent. A moment later, Bellac was leaving, and Arno remained still until he heard the doors close.

He swiftly shoved the papers into the book, and stuffed it into the shelf.

And Arno left the hideout without a trace.

The day was wasting away, and Arno tried to make the most of what time he had left considering this.

From Bellac’s encounters with Templars, and the places they might frequent battled with his gut of whether or not he would get the information he needed. So after pub, after pub, after pub, Arno’s justifiable crusade became his motivator to trek on. Despite his trainings as an Assassin, and as Sophie pointed out, his “Assassin lineage,” finding a dismantled Templar Order was almost an impossible task.

But Arno pushed himself, his legs crying from the constant climbs and leaps across buildings to give him faster access to every district around him; to make every second count because today was the closest he had ever gotten to finding about his step-father’s murder and whatever else they were planning to commit in regards to his step-sister.

The clock struck six, though Arno’s results remained zero. He looked upon the pub ahead, debating whether this again was going to lead him to another dead-end. He scowled at the thought, running his hands impatiently up his face. He licked his dry lips, tasting the cool air that fluttered inside his cowl.

He had to try one more time.

Inside was rather humid, filled with jeering, bibulous drunkards and abrupt laughter. Various glassware were stationed about the small, round tables, and the bodies trekked to and fro to keep a fluid motion of going to the counter, than back to their designated tables. Arno made way to the wooden counter where the bartender gave him an odd look.

“_What can I get you_?”

“_Nothing, I’m fine_.”

This disconcerted the server, making him lower his tone, “_Look here boy, you ain’t buyin’, you ain’t sittin’. Find yourself another place to take up space_-“

Arno sighed angrily, flattening his hands on the table, “_Fine fine, whatever is the cheapest on the menu. Now buzz off_.”

The server gave him a dirty look, grabbing a rag to clean a glass up for him. Arno rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers edgily against the counter. The chairs rode along the floor’s crevices, new conversations forming behind him as he tried listening in for something, anything useful at this point. The drink presented itself to him, the server sneering at his direction for a moment before averting to the side.

"_What can I get you_?"

"I'll have what he's having." The yearning voice announced, uncomfortably close to Arno's well-being. The young man shifted in place to find a disgrace of a noble man poised beside him, relishing the way Arno’s expression scrunched up. His bedizen outfit was in pieces, or collected in pieces by the looks of it. Even his wig wasn’t properly fitted to his head, traces of his dark roots peeking from underneath. He held such a knowing, charismatic smile and plucked the glass from Arno's possession.

"And you are?" Arno demanded, his tone irate.

"Someone who's had an eye on you for quite some time. A fellow inmate in that cruel institution that was the _Bastille_." The man answered, cryptic as ever. Arno frowned, rudely reminded of his time wrongly imprisoned in that fortress. Yet, he could hardly recall of his face...except...he could recall screaming.

"You're the man that screamed for countless days, aren't you?" Arno deduced, "The one that riled the crowds until they transferred you out of there."

"And here I thought you truly had forgotten about me." The man raised his glass, taking an indulgent sip, "As for my name, I have the pleasure to be _Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade_. And dear, Arno, I may have some information...that certainly can enlighten you."

“....Not that I’m interested in what you have to say,” Arno narrowed his eyes, shifting his shoulder a bit away, “But it’s odd that you’re willing to share something with someone you don’t know very well.”

“And what’s so wrong about that?” the man smiled innocently, leaning lightly that Arno could count the lines of his crowfeet.

“....You don’t do it without a fee,” the young man answered.

"_OOH_, I wouldn't say that," _de Sade_ took the shot of Arno’s served wine in time for the bartender to return with the new drink. The bartender eyed Arno suspiciously and took the emptied cup, the young man exhaling sharply while _de Sade_ swirled the red wine. “I feel it’s my sovereign duty to aid all those who have suffered in cruelest bondage with me at the _Bastille_...and I have a vested interest to see the King of Rats...caught in a trap."

"The King of Rats?" Arno repeated, somewhat feeling his face tainted from how _de Sade’s _glossy eyes shamelessly inspected it.

"You may know him better as the King of Beggars, the one who organizes all the poor and begging in Paris into his claws. He's made a reputation for himself...one that had attracted the likes of a _Charles Gabriel Sivert_."

“Wait- how do you know about _Sivert_?” Arno keenly pressed, seeing _de Sade_ mirthfully giggling, his puffed leg bouncing in anticipation.

"I told you before: I've had my eye on you for some time now, Arno. Our interests have aligned, and I see you're scouting the streets for a rat...that'll lead you to your next man. Well...I offer you pleasant news....a rat is amongst us."

The man’s eyes looked past the dubious Arno. However, he followed his gaze, and saw him eying a group in the corner of the pub, and a man of particular interest there. Dressed in an abused hat and ragged scarves, the bifocal man looked worn and fragile, like he was made out of light bark from how muddy his face looked. Arno felt the corner of his mouth twitch, then looked back to see _de Sade_ resting his chin in his erect hand, his lithe, pale fingers twisting the white lock that hung over his ear.

“_La Touche_, righthand man to the King of Rats, _Roi des Thunes_.”

“Following the smell to the corpse, is that it?” Arno clenched his jaw. “I’m not some errand boy you can command around...but I do appreciate the information.”

"Do pay me another visit when you're done chasing vermin, Arno, this certainly has been fun....and look...they've left a lovely trail," _de Sade_ chuckled deeply, finishing the wine with one more shot before confidently strutting away from the young Dorian.

“What an odd-wait trail?” Arno hurled his head around, seeing the group and _la Touche_ gone making their way out the back door.

Arno swiftly exited the bar (and knowingly left no payment to the most-likely-FUMING-bartender) before shooting himself up the building and to its rooftop. There he scavenged the alleyways and tracked after the men inconspicuously from above. One by one the men dispersed until all that was left was the vigilant _la Touche_.

They reached the _Marais_ district when the sun had set. The night laid its blanket upon the aroused city; the formidable, protesting citizens sprung awake with lit torches while the privileged elites ignited themselves with the light of the _Hôtel de Beauvais_, the place _la Touche_ had led Arno to. There was a long line outside, but Arno watched as the lissome man cut to the front of the line, exchanged a word with the person taking the invitations, and was allowed right in.

The place itself was well guarded, and frolicking with attendees pooling at the seams. Orange glows tinted the merry windows of the tall structure. Arno naturally looked high up to the surrounding vantage point, and smirked when he saw a couple of opened windows at the higher floors.

After a successful scaling attempt, Arno was on the neighboring building and inspecting the rooftop. Just when he was about to cross it, a dark form that almost blended with the dark sky moved, and Arno had to push himself against a curb roof, peering through around the edge. Snipers?

“A bit alarming,” Arno confessed to himself. When the sniper man turned away, Arno flung himself over the edge, and sought his chance to the thick rope that connected itself over. He grabbed onto the neck of it and slashed the rope cleaned, letting gravity take its course-

“Oh fu-“ Arno shut his mouth, and stomped his feet against the building’s side to avoid collision, “….**Ahhh**.” His feet thudded from the impact, and gave himself a couple of minutes to recover before climbing himself up. At the very top the sniper patrolled, his back turned to face the public street below…unaware of Arno’s speedy body coming from beside.

The man struggled, silenced by Arno’s arm while the other decreased his air flow. In a matter of a minute the man was unconscious and on the ground. Arno swiftly moved, climbing up another ledge to get to the very top of the hotel where he gained a bird’s eye-view. The pergolas stationed here gave Arno the proper cover he needed to hide the other unconscious snipers that had dared cross his way, and aided him to give the layout a good visual before moving to his target.

“There you are…” Arno breathed out, watching _la Touche_ move himself away from the ebullient citizens of the inner plaza, and inside a first floor in the hotel’s north wing. A window open on the second floor and Arno slipped inside, slapping the lavish curtains away.

The violin music playing leisurely circled the space below, sharp thuds and taps of shoes in rhythm to it. Arno cautiously walked along the rug, peering his head over the shimmering railing to watch everyone’s heads turning, spinning, and tilting in several directions, completely oblivious to his intrusion. Except, not _la Touche_.

Arno shot himself flat to the ground, crawling belly first to the ledge to see the man was peering along the second floor, and any place Arno would’ve picked as a hiding spot to be honest. Then, _la Touche_ moved, fast in his step-

“Argh,” Arno groaned to himself, and hurried to the wall at the far end. There he climbed, and across he scaled the columns to reach the opposite side of where _la Touche_ had gone. The dimly lit room following was a godsend, Arno able to inspect the lit room below where the staircase had been blocked of any entry. Arno eased himself; _la Touche_ was amongst a group of companions: a pale man and an elegantly dressed woman.

“How long must we wait? I _do _have other business to tend to,” the bombast woman sighed impatiently, her arms resting in front of her dress.

“Just a little bit longer, Marie. The Grand Master is preparing everything for our guest before we begin,” _la Touche_ reasoned, and bowed his head respectably to her direction. _Even a rat has manners better than others_, Arno thought.

“I trust we’ll finally see the fruition of our recent…. activities?” the pale, top-hat adorned male pressed, giving a hard smile at this.

“All will be made clear, my Lord,” _la Touche_ replied once more. That must be _Roi des Thunes_.

“I don’t like it. The plan is still too vulnerable—and let’s not forget _Lafrenière _is still out there, waiting to burn us all at the stake,” she huffed, “To make matters worse, he has sworn his alliance to the _de la Serre_’s daughter who continues to be a thorn on our side.”

“That is why we’re seeking help from the Colonies? Of this….Rogue Assassin, as they called him?”

Arno’s eyes narrowed, _What._

“Not my place to say,” _la Touche_ replied, and signaled with a swing of his arm, “Come, time to get started.” And the trio started to move as a unit.

Arno was right behind them, avoiding all contact, any guard he came across. An obscure ghost in the rooms where a rush of wind was all they could catch. His frenzied heart latched onto his throat, to remind him of the breakable mortality he carried. The further they walked, the ominous sign of less guards revealed a direful revelation Arno had tried to overlook: he was _alone_ in a Templar location, and no one knew where he was if something were to happen-

_You could potentially be marching to your own death._

“Not now, James,” Arno whispered to himself. A staircase emerged in the final section of the building, and Arno nearly flew down the steps like a swooping owl; undetectable and a spurring form.

An open door, and Arno could hear their footsteps from above. He was in a wine cellar in construction of sorts, and Arno situated himself in a confined compartment at the far end where many upright barrels were stacked alongside some spare ropes and floorboards. His eyes ascended to the gaping hole of the wooden ceiling, signaling that the floorboard had not been complete…and gave him a total view of the conspirators he managed to track down.

Truth be told, Arno was still unsure if these were _directly_ the people who had taken _de la Serre_’s life, but everything to this point was too much of a coincidence to push aside. And if he read the hints right, the clues and insinuations everyone had pieced him together, this orchestrated coup was far from over.

The footsteps shifted above, “I’ll be right back,” _la Touche_ excused himself as Arno watched the woman and pale man standing patiently by. Then, they talked amongst themselves as muffled susurrations held by the door. There was another voice, but it was so long for Arno to hear, he couldn’t make out what they were saying. 

“What do you make of this….Templar, _Roi_?” Marie quipped, keeping her gaze forward which Arno could only guess was the door. “If you ask me, I find this highly susceptible to infiltration, especially if it’s not a Templar from France.”

"I've heard plenty of rumors around him, not much of a face to put it. He has a tendency to always accomplish his missions, no matter the cost. Why, if it weren't for that ol' Haytham Kenway sending him off doing God knows what, he might have kept the Colonies under proper Templar control," _Thunes_ answered, looking rather like a skeleton from the dim lighting the candles inside provided.

“Hmph….does Germaine truly believe he can bring change? We’ve been trying for the past two years…” Germaine….was that the other voice from outside? The leader of their coup?

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Marie. Why, aren't you the one who's always chiding that good things come to those who wait?" _Thunes_ looked pointedly, "I mean, you nearly risked your status as a Templar to help Germaine after he was exiled."

“I would have gone to the moon and back if I could for him,” she replied firmly, “I suppose you’re right.”

In came the familiar voice of _la Touche_, “The Grand Master is off to fetch the Templar.”

“Then we wait for his entrance,” _Thunes_ finished.

Arno fasted his grip against the wall, memorizing their faces, their attire, the way Marie fixed the brooch on her chest while _Thunes_ kept touching the rim of his hat to straighten it out. _La Touche _himself was clearing his throat every now and then, swiping his thumb along his glasses to clean them again and again. Then, a few more footsteps from view, and the door opened one last time.

A figure out of view, but one Arno could detect and held the atmosphere of the room. He watched as the trio created a small arch, their cloaked companion being the bridge between the two, foreign parties. That must be Germaine. 

“Our guest has arrived from the Americas. Shay Cormac has made his presence; let us welcome him warmly to our cause. Shay, these are the men and woman of my inner circle to rebuild the Parisian Order, and change Paris for the better. Marie Levesque, _Roi des Thunes_, and _la Touche_.”

The woman named Marie properly gestured herself to their visitor, while the other two remained silent at her side, “It is an honor to meet you, _Monsieur_ Cormac.”

“It is…with hope that you show us your ways, and grant us with the aid we need to rebuild what has been needed changed,” _Thunes_ replied amidst the awkward silence when the man named Shay had said nothing.

“Coup of a coup,” _la Touche_ managed to nervously snort out, making Arno almost slap a hand to his own face.

“Whenever you are ready, Shay,” Germain enthusiastically insisted, and vulnerably rested his hands in front of him. “Lend us your wisdom, your guidance; we’ve heard so much of your accomplishments in the Americas. We believe in progression, and for far too long the Order in France has done nothing but serve those above the ordinary citizens. The city is burning, and we want to amend that, and nurture it to a greater ascension. You, Shay Cormac, will lead us to the New Order, and we will do what it takes to make that realization come true.”

Silence.

Arno held his breathe, eyes staring at the cloaked man’s profile, basking in the feral wrath that shamelessly clung to his arms and back.

“Then, let us begin,” the stranger’s thick accent was one Arno had never heard of, but one that certainly made himself stand on edge. Again, Arno’s eyes tried to search above past the planks and shifting feet of _la Touche_-

_CLICK._

And the shouts were horrendously haunting.

Arno lost footing, his back slammed against the wall as the standing shadows above fell, and left nothing in view but the blank ceiling, and the splattered wall of dark crimson. One hand laid limp, practically slumping itself through the construction, as if begging Arno for help. His trembling eyes watched the digits of Marie’s hand twitch, a shining object thudding at Arno’s feet. He looked down, dumbfounded at the shimmering brooch she had managed to pry off her chest from the shock of her shot chest. The blood pooled from all the Templar conspirators, only the cloaked figure above having survived, and gasping his final breathes from the twist, abstruse turn of events. 

“W-Why……” the befuddled voice hoarsely gasped, “After all that planning…..of killing off _de la Serre…._why this? You came…with the promise of something _better…_.”

What the hell was happening.

"You asked of me for a new beginning, Germaine," the traitor circled forth, a _click _resonating from his weapon, "But you cannot have such things when you continue to rely on old means, of old agendas...of a certain _Jacques de Molay_."

The cloaked figure ceased his movements, the floorboards creaking underneath his weight, "How did you--"

"I've regrettably come across too much of the...divine artifacts left behind by those who came before us. These...Pieces of Edens...Apples of Eve....Precursor Boxes. You're no different from those wretched things. You’re a Sage.”

Arno held his breath.

The man continued, “Knowledge bred and reborn in a new host every time one dies...." He knelt down near the opening of the floorboard, Arno catching the mask he wore up to the ridge of his nose, black as the darkest sea where his light skin burned against it, "One that possesses knowledge beyond our knowledge...is something that shouldn't exist."

Arno dug his gloved fingers into his palms, unable to look away as the man named Shay reached into his pocket. The Dorian was able to make out a shiny, silver color entering the chamber, and he felt his legs slip down, his numb rear hitting the dirt floor beneath him. The pistol rested right in front of Germaine’s forehead; the hood fallen back to expose his expression to his assassin.

“You think….you’re a hero, having slain his villain?” Germaine kept his fear at bay.

“I’m no hero. I’m merely a messenger,” Shay finished, and the swift bullet blasted into Germaine, silencing him forever.

The room was eerily quiet, the only sound Arno able to hear were shifting footsteps, and his thudding heart. Surely, someone had heard the massacre. There were so many guards out and on patrol, it wasn’t possible this man was able to get away with this-

The doors opened, and just when Arno thought an entire armada of guards would storm in, ready to take out this acclaimed Templar, the steps were merrily stepping into the quarter and a low whistle followed.

“My….you’ve made work of this lot, did you?” a male, unfamiliar voice replied, stopping beside Shay Cormac. Arno attempted to stand, but he was afraid. He was sure he would make a noise they would catch.

Another pair of footsteps, “About time,” an impatient woman.

And lastly, “The area is clear; no one will interrupt our way out,” another thick accent Arno didn’t recognize, but also came from a woman.

"I can assume they didn't give you a run for your money, now did they?"

Shay turned his attention towards the younger man, scoffing lowly, "I might be an older man, but I can still handle my own." Shay picked himself up from his crouching position, examining the room carefully, "There's still work needed to be done. Multiple Precursor artifacts and sites are hidden here in France, we rid of one terror....now we have to finish the rest."

“Which reminds me…” the other male in the group spun his heel in place, the wood groaning when he did, “the Assassin lot we faced earlier today.”

“Did they give you much trouble?” Shay inquired.

“Less equipped than we took for them to be,” the last woman to enter the room responded this time. “Exterminated.”

Arno’s eyes shot wide-

_a mission fell apart, that's all I can say, boy_

-oh. God.

"No doubt the Parisian Brotherhood is still meddling with these infernal devices..." Shay peered over the bodies, "I had my doubts about the Templar Order here but it seems the England Brotherhood held quite some contempt with them. I can see that there might have been some truth with how things are ran here."

"It's a disgrace to the Order." The bulkiest woman relented, "They followed a warped vision of the Father of Understanding, a man who claimed he knew the answers best."

"That is the fallacy of man, unfortunately." The younger man chimed, sighing a moment after, "When there is no God, someone will claim the mantle as his own to become one.”

“In other news, we’re preparing to move some of the supplies at the _Halle aux Blés_ tomorrow morning,” the first woman responded, stepping forward as her eyes rode along the body of _la Touche_, her steps trekking over the spot to keep Arno in complete shadow, “And your final informant will arrive, or so he wrote in a letter.”

"Reassuring. I will need all the hands for this matter..." Shay's sentence paused, his face blocked from Arno’s view, "Any word about the _de la Serre_ daughter?" Arno's chest locked when he heard the words spoke freely.

"I heard prior that this Order was split in twine between this coup operation, and her. I hear she's planning to rally support from some loyalist of her father's here in Paris. What was his name….Lafra….Lafre…Lafran?”

“Ha, you can leave the identity of that man to me, dear sister,” the chirpy man quipped in, bowing his entire upper body downward in an exaggerated motion. “My words can reach the darkest crevices in the city; surely, someone will give me the lead we need to track her down, and obliterate any aid she has left. A simple game of Cat and Mouse.”

"....Before you do." Shay gently cut in, "Grant me an audience with her. If Miss _de la Serre_ is as responsible as her father might have been, then there might still be a chance she could be useful to our cause."

"She might not take kindly to someone who just played at another coup," one of the women retorted, and Arno could feel a limp arm being slumped to the ground.

"Correction, we're standing before the man who just killed her father's murderer." The young man held a toothy grin, "She'd be damned stupid if she refused to at least speak to Shay."

“You’d be surprised of the amount of stupidity someone succumbs themselves to for the sake of pride,” the last woman scoffed, and Arno might’ve heard the sound of some kind of weapon being strapped in place. “Man’s pride is a disgusting thing.”

“Oh….well I’m not that bad….Right?”

“Shut it, brother.”

"Enough. We've done our work and surely the guards will eventually come to find the bodies. The Order will begin to collapse from the inside, and it's not our job to keep it afloat. We're here for another purpose, and do not stray from that singular goal."

“Understood,” the three bodies almost simultaneously responded, and remained silent.

“Let us move, and not waste our time here any longer,” Shay finished, and moved himself out of the room. The rest of his followers trailed behind him.

Arno couldn’t remember leaving the hotel, despite recalling the horrified chatter of the awestruck attendees. He was walking down the street, a boulder in his stomach that weighed him down to the world’s center of gravity, and how he felt every tissue in his nauseated body tearing.

Then, he was in a room; not the first vacant place he came across, or the second but the third. He paid for privacy out of his own pocket, and once he sat on the bed, it greatly screeched underneath his sudden weight that it made his skin unnervingly crawl. This morbid whirlpool poisoned his lungs, disturbing whatever composure he had mustered for the past hour.

Elise was in trouble and Arno had no idea where she was, or where he would even begin looking. He gripped the sheets tightly, curling his legs underneath the covers. Cold, but he was sweating. Theorizing, guessing many uncomfortable things.

Of Germaine’s execution.

The way he begged for understanding, but was left with no answer to quell his mind.

The gasping breathes of the men and one woman, and somehow her brooch was in Arno’s possession. He somehow couldn’t leave it behind, not in a place like that.

Not in a memory like that. Despite what she did, what they committed to….

They all died.

And just like _de la Serre_-

_“Master de la Serre! Father, FATHER!”_

_And how tightly his squeezed his hand._

_“Guards, help! Murder! Murder in the courtyard!” Sivert had screamed, shielding his eye coated in blood._

_“Sivert, come away!” Thunes had grabbed his arm, and they fled the scene, Arno unable to identify them._

_“Father! FATHER PLEASE WAKE UP! WAKE UP!”_

_“You’re under arrest!”_

_“No, no LISTEN-“_

-he wasn’t able to save them either.

To make sense of it.

The speak of these….items. These Pieces of Eden Arno was so briefly introduced to, but were now becoming a norm for these Templars to speak so freely about around him. As if to egg him on, to bring him further into this dark void he was positive he would never be able to climb out of.

Precursor Boxes. One that his own father carried.

Something he got killed for.

Something Germaine had been after.

_They've made it clear that they are also willing to throw one another to carnage-_

Shay Cormac was not going to leave Paris.

Whoever he was-

_Don’t get yourself into any trouble, okay?_

-was now a serious_, s_erious problem.

He didn’t remember when he fell asleep.

He jolted awake, alert of the icy shiver of the rising dawn. His legs stumbled, rushed to get to his feet; he hadn’t even changed out of his outfit. His cloak whipped behind him, his lean legs hitting the morning’s fog.

And he ran.

He ran like there was no tomorrow.

He had to tell Bellac- no. He’d only get into more trouble that way.

Elysia? Ugh…..no. She wouldn’t understand. This was way beyond her reach, her surveillance over him. He….he had to face this on his own.

But that was already a terrible idea to begin with.

Maybe-

Charlotte’s Café stirred little to no movement, a few stranglers waiting for the doors to open. Arno hurried his pace, and down the road-

“James!” Arno huffed out, panting harshly as he came within a couple of yards of the older student, “James! H-Hold on!” The man, who had been holding onto several pieces of parchment finally paused, jerking his head out and easing his shoulders when he realized it was Arno hunched over, grabbing his knees.

“Arno? Aren’t you supposed to be with Bellac today?”

“I-I have to talk to you!” he ripped the Britain’s arm, and nearly dragged him to a nearby alleyway. James flailed, and straightened up in alarm at Arno’s sudden action.

"Blimey, composure friend! You look like you're running from the devil himself." James commented, frowning at the state he was in, "What happened?"

“I saw-in the cellar of the hotel-Germaine!” Arno blurted out, and he was frustrated already by James’ confused expression. “Germaine killed my step-father, and he was killed by a man named Shay Cormac! All of the conspirators that were trying to rid of my sister, they were all killed by him. I saw it!”

"Whoa, whoa, what--" James clasped his hands firmly on Arno's shoulders, "Breathe and go slowly. You're saying you saw a man named Germaine? And that he was responsible for _de la Serre_'s murder? And someone _else _just murdered him??"

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to say,” Arno fumbled with his words, shutting his eyes before meeting James’ directly, “Yesterday, I went after _Sivert_, and I found out they were trying to get rid of Elise. That’s how I found the hotel, and they were trying to….get this Shay Cormac to work with them, to overtake the Templar Order. And he just shot them all in the room, and he had these three other followers with him, possibly four-I’m probably sounding crazy, I know I’m not making sense, but they’re headed to the _Halle aux Blés_.”

"Why come to me then, Arno?" James’ lips pressed, uncertain of the wave of information Arno had hit him with, "I don't doubt this is serious, you might actually be onto something breaking. But shouldn't you have told this to Elysia or Bellac, the Council??? They’ve been running with their heads cut off about this sort of knowledge and you got it in a single night??"

Arno shook his head, his dry throat making it that much more difficult to explain, “I-I can’t go to Bellac, he won’t care about what happens to Elise, and neither will Elysia. You have to understand me, James. PLEASE.”

"I am trying, but you are getting ahead of yourself." James grounded him for a moment, pressing a hand to his own forehead. His other hand tapped the wall behind him, counting off by beats of three. Almost fifteen beats passed before he looked up at Arno seriously who felt his hope diminishing by the second, "….All right, I will propose this...we will go to the _Halle aux Blés_ to gather intelligence on exactly _who_ these people are. We will **not** engage them, at any means. Our lives are worth more than letting our befuddled emotions get the better of us, okay?"

Arno exhaled tersely.

James did not skip a beat, "Think of Elise. I don't expect her to exactly take news to this as easily as I have. You're going to need proof...and while it’s not exactly the sort of plan you might _want_ to do, it's a plan that'll get you the results to continue for another day to solve. Do we have an accord, Arno?"

“……..Alright, I get it,” he nodded vigorously, “Intel. No engaging. Clear as day.”

"This is without an order of the Brotherhood, so if we were to get caught, we're on our own." James rubbed his temple gently, and Arno could see he was battling on what to do next, "I'd suggest...we go get prepared then. I don't want to take any risks with this group...."

“Of course, I understand.”

“Follow me.”

Eventually, Arno and James (fully equipped and ready at stand-by) stood at the peak of a building, overlooking the _Halle aux Blés_ that stood in the bustling square. As expected, vigilant sentries were posted at every entry point, some nestled together to gossip about the shipments being loaded inside. There was a lot of movement of crates and barrels, as well as some hay and products.

"That hardly looks like welcoming sort of party being hosted." James commented lightly, "Any sign of your conspirators?"

“No, not yet,” Arno squinted across, working through his sleep-deprivation haze. His heart thudded at the memory of Germaine’s demise, and he replayed the voices he had heard. Shay, the other man, and the two women. He hardly had a good look at the followers….but their leader, the Templar they had been pinning their hopes on-

“He’s right there,” Arno pointed, recognizing the shoulder build, and the tucked hair in a small ponytail (much like his). The ebony outfit that looked like a captain’s, the crimson outlines that decorated his sash and the interior of his black coat. The mask he had worn was off, and was nestled at his thick neck.

“Are you certain?” James gave the man a good look before looking back to Arno for confirmation.

The Dorian nodded, “I’m positive. That’s Shay Cormac.” The two men observed the dark-haired Irish man enter the building; the two guards posted there followed after him per his instruction. Arno’s hands turned into fists, “I’d stake my life on it.”

James quirked his lips, gazing up the round, glass dome and down, humming thoughtfully. He braced an arm against his knee and gestured towards the windows that were at least three to four stories high.

"Then we'll have to maneuver an entry point from the rooftops to avoid the guards on the ground level. There's a building here and a building across from us that are closest. We'll follow the guards patrol to see where we're least likely to be viewed from then go from there."

“Sounds like a plan.”

Arno followed James’ lead, the duo able to overlook the once grain storage facility, hidden away from sight. By a curb window’s edge, they managed to locate a blind-spot on the guards’ patrol. On James’ count did the descend their post, and begin their ascension on one of the dome’s supporting pilasters.

Arno gave great leaps and swings, keeping easily beside his older companion until they reached an open gap. There, James swung his tall body upward, his foot clasping onto one of the iron bars pinned against the brick wall to keep his balance. Finally, with some handy lockpicking and a lift of the window, James entered and closed it once Arno slipped in after him.

They were secluded away from watchful eyes, and surrounded by various, wooden boxes, rolled up parchments, and several books that were laid out on a cutler wooden desk. Cautiously, they snuck to another row of windows overlooking the building’s interior lot. Movers were still coming and going, but there was no sign of Shay Cormac yet.

James went to the desk viewable, and rummaged through the small drawers. When he opened a certain book did Arno get distracted, and walked over to see what his friend had managed to find.

“What is it?”

“A list of names. A lot of them,” James flipped through the pages, skimming the contents rapidly, “Location names. But nothing else.”

Arno replayed the words, being mindful if he had miss some sort of detail, “Shay mentioned that there were…Precursor….objects and places here? Do those names have anything to do with that? It sounded like he was after something specific, if that was the case.”

"Precursor?" James pressed his lips together, assessing the contents once again, "Those are...ancient artifacts, things the Assassins and Templars have been fighting over for centuries. If he's looking for those, then I have a grave feeling it comes as an ill-omen to the Brotherhood."

“And to Elise-“ Arno stepped forward, grabbing his arm, “Whatever this Shay is planning, he-“ When he sensed James turn rigid did he look up to him, and Arno had to admit…he didn’t like petrified gaze James held. The way his face froze was unnerving.

"....Arno, let me ask..." Arno could see his apple jump. "Did this man move like an assassin?"

“…An Assassin?” Arno narrowed his eyes, “…They….the followers of Germaine, one of them called him a….Rogue Assassin. I was…unsure why.” And James’ eyes shrank enough to make Arno’s stomach curl.

".....We should go, Arno." James shut the book promptly, "We can take this with us but we really should go."

Arno shook his shoulder, and he absolutely did not like how pale James had gotten, “What’s wrong?”

"I think I severally miscalculated who exactly we're dealing with."

“What are you talking about-“

_CLICK._

James harshly ducked both of their heads, and the windows behind them shattered on impact. The entire wall gave in, splinters and glass piercing the air the rain. The guards beneath dispersed from the collapsing area, crying out and fleeing the scene. Arno stumbled up, and his eyes widened to find the broad-shouldered Irishman had stationed himself on a hanging scaffold, facing their direction. James’ chest heaved, his hood having flown back from the impact as his light hair hung about his face. His cut cheek bled as he clutched Arno’s forearm.

“You in some kind of hurry?” the man named Shay fixed the thick rifle on his side, filling the chamber with a hand-sized bullet. “You just got here.”


	15. The Right Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin- HEYO kids. 
> 
> A little earlier than expected, but. Here we go.
> 
> Thanks for reading, thanks to my co-writers, enjoy. Things are about to take a turn. Until next time. I'll fix typos later.
> 
> -Keys

_How long has it been?_

_Since you’ve been yourself?_

Soft touches.

A large palm brushed it back, and how I remembered it like it was only yesterday.

_“Are you smitten with me, Elysia?”_

My eyes flickered, and the curls of my fingers could sense him….but they couldn’t reach his warmth.

_“Should I tell you how I truly feel?”_

How innocent he looked…..and how I wanted to corrupt every trace of it with my entire being.

_“If you go to sleep….”_

_His mouth hovered, and the smoke that rushed out of his robust lungs sunk deep-_

_“You’re never going to see me ever again-“_

_Knock knock. _

“Elysia~”

The bed shifted underneath me, and the smell of aged coffee lingered in the room. Four, emptied cups sat across the main desk, and the fixed papers that had been reorganized waited patiently for their deliverance. My fingers shifted through the curled forest on my head, the ends swaying at my upper back when I rolled my head. But the hand that was there was gone.

It had been gone for more than five years.

I sat up, removing the sheets and weighing my balance when I stood, “Door’s open.”

Charlotte didn’t wait a second, and popped her head right in, “You have a letter, it was urgently sent.”

My chest weighed briefly, “….I’ll be right down, then.”

However, she didn’t leave, and searched my posture, “….Do you think everything is alright?”

I caught her gaze, “Yes, don’t worry about it.”

_It’s not._

“Your coffee for the morning is brewed. Shall I send James your way when he gets here?”

“No, tell him to wait for me here, I’m sure it won’t take long,” I reassured.

She smiled again, “Then I’ll be sure to keep him company!”

After dressing myself did I make my way downstairs, and approached the freshly, brewed coffee cup. As Charlotte had told me, a letter awaited beside it.

I opened it.

The next second, I was out the door, leaving the coffee untouched.

_Humans are so predictable._

“We must hurry, in the Grand Hall.”

Sophie had waited for me at the cavern entry, and I kept up with her pace as we progressed through the Brotherhood headquarters. The Entrance Hall was entirely bare, except for the occasional hooded figure running down the staircase with equipped materials such as extra fabrics, cloths, bowls of water and sheets. The double doors further ahead had been pried eerily open-

_Do you remember?_

and my eyes examined the made-man infirmary.

_There was so much blood. _

Crimson rivers pooled the outer edges of the tossed blankets. Limped and curled fingers stretched out to hold onto death’s invisible, definite touch. The dense atmosphere powered by rushing boots and quick commands, despite the deadly-silent heartbeats that were unable to be revived.

They were dead-

_They’ve met a terrible fate._

Sophie hastened herself up the steps to the Master Room where the colored banners hung disconcertingly limp. The fireplace was lively, a complete contrast of every Master’s present mood.

_Remember what you did, Elysia?_

Quemar was the only one seated, his coat off and his cane rested at the back of the chair. The sleeve of his blouse was rolled up, his arm bloody and resting on his lap. Mirabeau went silent as Sophie and I neared, addressing up. An unharmed Beylier and a brooding Bellac were awaiting; a tensed, fixed atmosphere wrapped around them.

“Elysia,“ but the words died in Beylier’s throat. His eyes narrowed, pressed onto me to signal me something. I was unclear, but I was bound to find out in the next minute.

“What happened?” I acridly interrogated, then looked to Quemar’s injured limb that I was unashamed to behold. Quemar battled my look, but there was nothing he could do to sway my locked gaze. 

“Shay was…..aware of our play,” Mirabeau tentatively revealed, resting his hands behind his back and making an effort to stand beside Quemar _just enough_ to make me look at him properly. “Master Beylier and Master Quemar were overwhelmed during their approach, and had to retreat their advance.” The entire room fell silent, except the sound of shifting bodies, hurrying steps and pained groans muffled outside.

A red atmosphere floated around the Mentors, though I could tell Bellac was struggling to say something (which could only mean he already brought up his concern before). His arms were firmly crossed on his chest, his eyes locked to the side wall. Beylier’s shoulders were stiff and straight, and Sophie stood silently beside me, unable to face Mirabeau’s direction.

Quemar thumbed at his forearm, a sigh escaping as he extended a leg out, “Mirabeau…..I-“

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Eyes lifted to me as I glared to Quemar, “You pushed the advancement.” And the glass room shattered.

"I had reason to believe that we could challenge his stance." Quemar struck back, pointing at me sharply with his uninjured hand, "Shay was planning on meeting with other French Templars of Paris, I would not allow him the chance if I could."

“And you sacrificed your whole team for **_it_**?” I raised my tone. “Because that’s what I saw outside.”

"You have _no_ right to lecture me on this." Quemar glowered ferociously, debating whether he should actually stand from how far he was leaning forward in his chair, "They knew exactly what they were getting themselves into. It was for the good of our Order."

I couldn’t control my tongue, “Then _you_ should’ve died with them, it would’ve only been fair.“

“Enough!” Sophie cut in, signaling Quemar to sit properly as she then shot a stare at me, “This is not the time to bicker! Shay is still out there, and we need to come up with a plan to figure out his next move.”

"His next move??" Bellac retorted, shooting his hand out next and standing on my other side, "We have God knows how many Assassins dead and you expect to move after him now?!"

“What other choice do we have?!” Sophie retorted, her gloved hand striking to the side toward the open doorway behind us, “To send another group of students to their deaths? This should be a Master matter, and if Mirabeau allows it, then I will volunteer to-“

“No, Sophie,” Beylier quickly stepped forward, and I could swear I caught a little swagger in his step from a small injury on one of his legs, “It’s a suicide mission!”

Sophie curtly stepped aside as she faced the door, her back to us. “We **cannot** risk anymore students-“

“And we cannot risk a Master; I forbid it, Master _Trenet_,” Mirabeau retorted, frowning as he halted her in place by the sheer plead in his professional tone. "Be at peace my fellow Masters, despite what grievances have occurred: I cannot afford for any of you to be cut down by Shay’s blade. We all have a responsibility for those that remain; they can't afford to go out without our guidance. So I ask you to reconsider, Masters, to stay here and do not engage our foe."

Soft groans and flickering candles enveloped the chamber, as well as creaking chair Mirabeau decided to seat himself on, beside Quemar. His heavy sigh aggravated my patience. Sophie must have felt the same way from how she sharply inhaled.

“Then I will help the injured. If you’ll excuse me.” Her strong thuds exited the room and continued down the stop steps. Without a word did Beylier bow his head curtly, and followed after her.

“Master Elysia,” I felt Mirabeau glance at the back of my head. “I ask the same for you.”

_No human controls you._

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Bellac suddenly motioned, and snatched my arm forcefully. I gave him a perplexed stare, but the urgency in his tone spoke something else. "We'll be taking our leave, have to make sure none of the other Assassins get any smart ideas of being martyrs. If you'll excuse us--"

And he _moved_, with me in tow.

“What are you doing?” I moved my arm, and Bellac was quicker to remove his grip once we were out of earshot.

And I didn’t like how he asked me this, “Have you seen Arno?”

My chest held, “Why are you asking me that? _You _have him today.”

"I haven’t seen him since yesterday, and he's been acting strange that one." Bellac scowled, crossing his arms firmly, "He started getting really bold with me, especially with taking a mission I had prior. I left him in the Library to finish the reports--"

Bellac paused at the very word, and his eyes searched. And they froze.

“What is it?” I grabbed his shoulder, and shook him once, “WHAT.”

_He’s met a terrible fate, hasn’t he?_

And every form of panic hitched onto my shoulders, the icy weight of dread budding and warping within the cavity of my chest. The definite realization of this boy’s tragedy, and the endgame it would lead him to. And how it led him to his doom very, very prematurely.

_A very terrible, terrible fate._

"Fucking...one of those rotten Templars must have known. Said something that piqued his interest," Bellac grimaced at the concluded, unison thought, "We have to find where he went."

“Goddamn, Bellac,” I spewed a flame, and hurried down the steps. Bellac didn’t waste time, and two of us sprinted through the mass of rushing Assassins, the sniffles and hushed, hurt whispers flooding the hall. “You let him go on his own, you fed him a fucking breadcrumb and gave him a trail!”

"Don't point all the blame at me! He could’ve easily learned something from you that spurned it on." Bellac argued, but shook his head and panted steadily beside me, "What matters is we find the boy and find out what the hell he's been doing."

“Then keep up.”

_There’s no point._

The only place he would go

_You’re too late._

is a place where he would feel somewhat home

_Let fate play itself out._

Charlotte café was in view. We came to the entrance, where Grisier was taken aback of our sudden appearance.

“Elysia? Master Bellac? What brings you here-“

“Where is Arno?” I shot out.

“Arno hasn’t been in- hey!” I pushed past him, and targeted Charlotte at her usual table, scribbling on some documents. Before I could get her attention she sensed my stare-

“Dear, don’t scare me like that!” her smile contorted to a startled expression.

“Where is the Dorian?” Bellac questioned this time, taking a look around once. “He hangs out around here, doesn’t he?”

Charlotte stood up at this, fixed the fold on her dress, “Master Bellac, it’s been ages since-“

“WHERE. IS. ARNO.” I cemented harshly, and Charlotte’s face dropped at the warning tone, Grisier having made his way over, examining us.

Her response was swift, but monotone, “He hasn’t been in. I haven’t seen him last night or this morning.”

“Damn it,” I gripped the edge of the table, gripping my cowl with my free hand, “Bellac, go ahead, I need to find James-“

“James hasn’t been here either.”

I shot her a glance, and an icy chill grappled my spine.

Charlotte shook her head, “It’s unusual. You know he’s always on time.”

_They have met a terrible fate._

Oh fuck.

_A terrible fate._

FUCK.

_HeheheheheheH_

“Elysia?!” Charlotte called out, but I was already outside. Weighing the options. Thinking.

Terrified.

“We split up,” I urgently replied to Bellac, my dry throat unable to swallow any sort of reassurance.

"I'll take the Southern districts while you take the North ones." Bellac compromised.

“The second you see them, don’t let them out of your sight.”

"Same goes to you!" And Bellac ran off.

“Elysia, ELYSIA!” Charlotte sprinted outside, Grisier following as they scanned the vicinity.

I was already gone.

Arno was never afraid of most things. Most of the time, his wit and sarcasm could let him bypass almost any kind of bad situation, whether it be his fault, Élise’s or a mixture of both. Always two or three steps ahead, whether or not it was premeditated or conjured on the spot. Arno was good at that.

But something about right now….

He couldn’t move. James’ grip clamped, his nails sinking into Arno’s sleeve and dared to reach the very bone itself. Last night’s events replayed in his head, of how all the bodies dropped-

_Courage, my boy._

“Arno,” James hissed, the panic concealed in the urgency.

And how Arno wished he weren’t here. How he wished he hadn’t dragged James here.

_And Arno? No exploring, hmm?_

“Run!”

His body followed. James’ foot kicked down the door to their left-

“Keep your head LOW!” James’ had to yell over the blasting sound of the rifle; the second wall keeping them safe cracked underneath the intended _BOOM_. It hardly lasted when the third shot rung free, exposing them to the Irishman as James yanked Arno to the next room.

"What the hell kind of a rifle is that?!" Arno rung free from James's grasp, the two swift to haul a large barrel out of the way of the door. Another shot rang free, splinters of wood and red velvet of the stored wine discharging into the air. Arno had taken a hand to the barrel of his gun, but James was far too quick to pull at his wrist to occupy him with sprinting instead.

"No idea but it's certainly lethal," James sprung a smoke bomb from his pocket and tossed it back after another round of gunfire. The smoke dispersed with a vengeful hiss, James barricading the door behind them and threw down whatever materials could block the way.

"That'll hold him for a moment, it'll give at least a minute to think of an escape." James pressed a hand to refrain his bangs back, setting his gaze to the wooden support in the center of structure, visible from the collapsed wall. "We'll have to cross--"

"Are you mad?!" Arno flinched when their only barrier held back the gunfire.

"We're either going to survive this or not, we have to be a little mad to at least try!"

“I don’t think ‘mad’ is expressive enough to-“

_BOOM_.

The double doors gave way, and Arno stepped back enough to almost hit against the far, stone wall. The hood on his head laid limped, and there the fresh cuts on his cheek stung from the slapping air. The foggy, broad-shouldered figure stepped forward from the emerging smoke, rifle drawn to swing casually between both James and Arno. His steps were leisure and controlled, his boots hardly making a sound when he was in full view. Standing at six feet and two inches, dark eyes devoid of any sort of glisten or familiarity.

“Young men, foolishly wandering in a place like this,” the man exhaled out, his solid arms unwavering at the hold of his weapon. “You should’ve known better.”

“….Exactly what my friend here was telling me, so we’ll take your advice, and be on our-“ Arno raised his arms up, and suddenly the rifle hovered to him, “…..way.”

The man named Shay inspected James next, “Who said I’ll let you go?”

“If I may,” James lifted his hand briefly, garnering Shay’s attention…and his rifle. Arno watched James’ fingers extend out, and a metal tag wiggling at his index finger. Arno’s eyes widened, “We’ll be heading out-“

** _CRASH!_ **

The entire room was engulfed in a thick, invasive smoke; Arno felt the back of his neck gripped, the scruff of his robes alone nearly choking him from how harsh James’ clasp was. His older peer propelled them forward, and abruptly Arno was running along a wooden beam, keeping his balance-

“GRAB ON!” James commanded, and Arno’s hands and arms latched onto the wooden construction they had been eying prior. One harsh pull and Arno was properly on one of the platforms, shooting his head back-

“Oh fuc-“ he couldn’t even finish the sentence when he saw Shay saunter himself to the edge of the gap, his lower face shielded with the same, black fabric that was around his neck to be somewhat immune to James’ smoky retaliation. And he didn’t waste time, swinging the rifle upwards, and clasping the neck of it onto his free grip. He took aim-

“Arno, what are you doing?!”

The Dorian kicked at the two lanterns that had been set on the platform, sending one soaring into Shay’s direction, while the other-

** _BOOM!!_ **

-had been accidently launched to the gunpower barrels below. The entire building shook from the impact enough that Shay missed his mark, and shot above Arno’s head.

“Gotta slow him down some way!” Arno grabbed James’ arm, rounding about the platform to be out of Shay’s view.

“And setting the entire building on fire was your plan!?” James berated even as they hastily scrambled. The plunging smog of flaming oils and wood shot like a geyser, Arno and James coughing hoarsely from the rising, toxic flames and fumes-

_CLICK_.

Arno shot himself upwards like a springing spider, hearing the splintered wood unpredictably test his lean weight. The platform groaned loudly, and Arno braced himself as it started to tilt-

“Keep going!” James encouraged, pointing to the ceiling wooden beams that seemed to stretch a mile away, “We can escape through there!”

"You make it sound--"

_CLICK._

The platform grew unstable, the young Dorian's instincts forced him to cut through the air to avoid the collapsing boards that dared to plunge him into the man-made hell below; flames licked and cursed against the walls, worsening the black smog that threatened to clog up Arno’s lungs. James had clutched his hand, pulling him up with a swing to make him connect back to the wooden pillar.

"--like this is easy."

"This is no time for jokes," James shot him a stare that made Arno freeze, especially with the deep furrow in his brows, “We’ll die if we stay in here. It’s my job to protect you, do you understand??”

Arno battled his words, and he was uncertain of why he was hesitating to answer back, “I-I understand.”

James urged him to continue the climb, eying the figure that seamlessly fused with the smoke only to reappear from another angle to take aim at them. Whether be it by the platforms or by range which he could target them, Shay pursued them without fault.

"I'll cover for you, climb!"

Arno shook his head, looking down at James in disbelief, "You can't be serious."

James didn't answer when he fired the first bullet from the confinements of his wrist, “Now, Dorian. That's an order!"

“….Don’t fall behind!” Arno retorted, and resorted to hastily climb, untethered by the invisible rope that had latched him to James’ side. Bit by bit the base’s beam weakened, Arno flinging himself to finally clasp onto a spare scaffold above that was away from any sort of danger except the puffs of smoke that arose from below. He observed James clasping onto the next platform available, the one before giving way and tumbling downward. Arno caught the glistening iron-

“Keep going!” Arno tossed various firework bombs, the rifle jerking upward and missing James’ back. The fumes imploded by the added flare, hues of red, greens and oranges sparking every shadow and crevice that Shay might have been hiding in next. Arno kneeled to the edge of the scaffold, reaching his hand out to his companion when he saw the tower tilting and heard the excessive screeching that echoed along with it.

“You’re almost there! C’mon, James!!” Arno shouted ardently, gritting his teeth.

James balanced himself on the teetering platform, launching himself. The tower cracked; James took the large leap, arm extended out--

_CLICK_.

The bullets cracked and fractured against the stone wall, Arno bracing himself while he pulled his comrade up. James clutched tightly, teeth visibly gritting. Arno grimaced at the sight of James clamping a palm over the bloody fabric on his leg.

“Can you stand?” Arno aided James to his feet, trying his best to keep the weight off of his injured leg. “Look, there’s a beam we have to go across, then we climb up!” He pointed for visual, leading up to the open hatch of the rooftop above them, “We’re almost out!” The bottom floor was consumed in a hellfire.

"You might have to make the first jump and I'll follow after." James seethed, straining with whatever energy he had to move forward, "On the count of three then."

“Alright then, let’s go,” Arno nodded rapidly. He aligned himself with the horizontal beam, his feet touching it effortlessly as he faced James, extending his arm out again as he balanced himself well, “I got you.”

James fought against his limp to leap and catch Arno's arm, helping himself up and wordlessly scanning behind, "Where did he go?"

"Likely out of the building now." Arno witnessed another pillar fall into the flames, furthering the plumes of ash, "Its either we're finished in here or out there, and I rather remain scorch-free. Come on."

They continued their escape route, Arno swift in his step as they climbed to the next beam above their heads. He reached down to haul James, and he was almost sure he would’ve dropped him if it hadn’t been for his entire front against the wooden support. With a kick, James stood beside him. Another ascension, and Arno was climbing out of the ceiling hatch. He reached for James’ hands, and with all the strength he could muster, the two men were out-

“_Merde, merde_!” Arno scrambled, the sleek exterior of the dome they had laid on lending them momentum down the side. The edge rapidly came into view, and Arno didn’t waste time clasping onto James’ scrambling arms.

“Get ready to jump!!” James roared.

What the FUCK.

My eyes shot to the rising smoke, the blasting sounds of agitated ash and gun powder polluting the bright blue sky. This drove the pedestrians to the chaotic scene, many screaming and pointing to the engulfed structure. 

Closer inspection-

“Oh my god,” the heavy sea in my lungs plunged the rest of my body into soaking trepidation, my feet acting on their own accord as they raced across the rooftop, and stared at the dismantled building. My eyes combed, intently, intensely among the shouting and moving bodies of civilians, trying to find James, and the goddamn Dorian who possibly dragged him here.

_They met a terrible fate._

No, it wasn’t possible.

That couldn’t happen.

_Where is James?_

“HEY!” a familiar, annoying voice.

I hissed, catching sight of two, hooded bodies climbing down a section of the building’s backside, James limping in Arno’s grasp as they both kept a steady pace. I climbed down inhumanely swift in the shadow of the alleyway, and sprinted over to aid James’ other side. He was bleeding on his leg, a fractured muscle or bone, but no serious damage. His cheeks were scratched up, along with Arno who had a sprained arm.

“What the HELL were you two thinking!?” I couldn’t stop myself, hooking James’ free arm over my shoulder.

Arno let go, and kept pace on his other side, “Long story short-“

“YOU BROUGHT HIM HERE, DIDN’T YOU?” I shot a glare over, halting Arno in his tracks. We came to a stop near a closed café’s front, several citizens converging to the streets now to watch the building starting to collapse on itself. “You ignored Bellac’s orders and brought James to a mess you couldn’t stay out of!”

Arno was quick to defend himself, his dirty cheeks slightly turning pink from how flushed he had gotten, “This was important! I had to ask James to come along. There's a dangerous man on the loose--he killed _de la Serre_'s murderers!" Arno insisted, throwing his hands, "He nearly killed us!"

James suddenly grunted, and nodded as he shared a glance to me, his eyes soft, "While this probably doesn't justify his means, Arno is right.” He sat at a nearby barrel at this, resting a hand at the center of his chest, coughing harshly once, “That man is a threat to Paris.” They ran into Shay.

“This will be resolved when we get back,” I cut in, sighing heavily as I felt the heavy burden ride down my back. “Your leg is injured. We have to take a look. Can you walk?”

“Yes…I’ll be just fine,” James smiled, despite the cuts along his face, and the way he turned to face Arno. “If anything, I have Arno to…”

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I should’ve heard it.

L̴̨͖̰̹̥͈̠̘̬̘̋̊̒̑̂̃͐̆͌̈͒̽͑̊̇̇̅̇͛̄͒̆͛͠͠i̸̗͕͚̫̞̪͎̼͝t̸̨̟̖͍̬̻̣̜̩̤̟̻̮̼̣͖͚͈͓̚ͅͅt̴̢̨̡̧̛̛̙̼̱̪̹̺̭̰͖̠͙͔̩̯͚̗͚̮̺̙̘̯̗̰̺͇͈͈̩̝̤̠͕͉̹̝̣͆͌́̈̄͑̈́̒̎̈̓́̎̔̅̃̀̃̈́͛̓̐̅̇̉̄͛̄̾̎͐͌͒̇͜͠ļ̴̛̭̝͈͓͕̖̺̹͚̣̥̩͕̭͊̏̔͂̈́͋́͑̿̆͌͗̓͆̉̅̓̃̇̐͛̊̓͋̏͛̈́̈́̅̅̕̚͘̚̕͜͝͝͠͝ȩ̷̩̳͉̉̒͆͋̋̓̆̎͛͐̄̃͒̓̄́͆̈́̅̈́̅̊͠ ̷̢̧̭̫̝͓͙͓̹̙͈̲̣͙̩̳͙̦̪͎̰͔̖̟̿̂͛͐̾͜F̵̡̧̢̡̧̛͔͔̜̪̱̯̟̝̹͇̗͚͙̪̱̞̼̘̠͉̼̫̝͈̤̠̬̺̣̻̫͑̌̏͌̾̒̒̽̌͆͂͐̌̆̂̓̈͑̓̈́̄̋̃̓̽̂̈͂̐̈́̏̚̕͜͠͝ͅͅǫ̶̹̠̘̼̝̦̙̹̙͔̪͈̪̗͇̹̥͛̆͒̆́̈̽͌́̂̉̾͛̈́́͘̚͝͝ͅx̷̢̡̩̰̗͉̻̬̱͎̞̱̠͉̖̜̘͖̓̾̂̓͝ͅ,̶̟͎̜̘̜̺̖̙͚͕͖̟̣̳̞̙̘̩̈́͋̄̿̊̄̍̈̆͌͒̀̑̌̅͂̑̅̿̏̄͗̃̈͑̍̎̎̎̿̏͊̇̊̽͛̓̈́̑̂͘͝͝ ̶̧̧̢̤͉̙͎̙̣͖̱̩̮̝̼̭͓͍̙͈̘̠͕̬̮͍̞̞̯̥͕̺̲͇͔͚͎̞͇͌̉̆̉̐̑͋̒͜͜͜ͅL̵̨̡̧̨̨̛̠̘̥̪̜̗̪̖͔̬̥̜̗̪̲̤̤̘͖̮͙̞̭̹̝̮̩͉̖̹̖̩̜̍͛̄̄̎̈́͂͐͒̈̎̾̉̾͌̄͑͂̄̎̍͆̑̋̚͜͜͝ͅį̸̡̢̡̠̻̠̘̣̥̹̩̯̗̙͉͎̼̖̺̮̞̭͙̙̦̩̜̱̩̬͔̟̯̖̟̘̦͇̭̤͖̱̘̭̖̖̈́͆̐͜ͅt̷̢̡̨̡̡̢̥̻̻̫͇̮͍͕̫̦͖̺̞͇̟͎̪̜̫͔̱͇͎̪̗̝̠̘̥̠̩̲͌͗̀̅̋͛̏̀͐̃͑̉̄̂̎̎̋̔̂͑̌̂̓̽͊̌̆͆̾͆̆̕͠͠͝t̸̨̢̛̰͓̠̠͔̹͖̗̭̲͚̝̝̖͓̟̙͈͕̜̞̠̰̥̲̜̝̙̪̏̆͂͊̃̋̉̀̈́̈́̈̍̔̌̍͊̌̐̿̐̾̿͊̕̕͘̕̕͜͠͠ͅl̶̨̛̛̛̛̙̝͚̫̰͉͎͕̰͕͍̦̜̰̠̻͇̠̞̥̹͈̹̣̳͚̮̣̦͉͈͋́̊̎̑̂̽͛̓͑̉̊̌̅̿̈́̌͗̐̅̔̀̉͋̾̿̍͂̂̋̑̅̌̔͛̌̆͘͝͠͝͝e̵̢̢̡͚͈͈͈̗͇̦̞͖̩̞̹̣̻͙̞̫̟͒̈̄̊̇͗̂̂̇͛̓̈́̆̏̍̀̎̕͝͝ ̶̢̱̺̬͔̠̪̬͔̳͇̫͆̾̅͋͑̌̍̋͆̇͛̆̔̐͗̌͌̅̉̌̒͐̈̔̂̉̇̚̕̚͠͠ͅͅͅͅF̵̦̂̌́͂̑̏̀͂́̌͛̀̀͋̀̈͆̽̒͐̒͐̆́̂͗͒͌͆͒̕̕͘͝͝͝͝o̵̬͚̻̣̿̂͗̇̍͌͑́̑̓̌̐̃̒͗̐̿̋͆̔̊̔̕̚͘͠͠͠ͅx̸̧̨̛̗̼̺̦͉̬̥̦̟̳͕͇͖͔͔̙̞̹̥͉͍͎̼̰͂̏̋̆͒̎̏̈́͗͜ͅͅ.̸̧̨̺̭̘̼̠͍͎̬̟̒̉̓̄̿̿̈́̎̈̓̐̑̄̈́̊̽̾̀͝ͅ

I don’t know what it was that didn’t…..let me.

B̴̛̮͙̲̹̯͈̼̼͓̩̲̠̦̃̈̅̂́̀̋̎̎͊̐̋̃͜͜e̸̡̧̛͍̜̬͓͖͎̲̜̥̱̗̺̠͂̈́̓͑̄̈́̈̍̔̈̆̾̿̾̂̋͊̌̓̇̈́̀̒͗̚͠͝͝͝͝͝c̷̢̨̨̢̨̢̡̛̛̤͈̥̗̟̮̹͙͕̗͎̳̘̥̥̳̦̠̣̝̮̯̫͓͖̖̮̣͖̭̦͉͎̜͙̰̘̒͋̐̆̑̋͊̀̅͐̊͆̋̓̽̎̔̈͛͋̍̔̈́͜͝͠ͅͅa̴̡̢̧̮̳̦̦̻̮̪͙̥̝̟̺̪̭̻͎̫̦̞̗̱̱̠̣̻̜͓̿ͅư̸̢̡̨͉͉̙̹̭̙̘̜̬̫͔̞̬͚̗̲̝̝̞͇̬͙͑̒̂̆̅̒̒͂͌̊̂̇́̽͆̈́̄̑̐̈̃̑͂̈̉͑́̒̒̓̚̕̚̕͘͝͝͠s̸̟̝̭̺̣͕̫͚̲̥̯̜̖̘͕̓̎͜e̷̡̧̳̱̪̟̣̹̲̜͚̦͚͉͈̲͙̯̳̓̋͒̈̊̌̄̏͛̒̓̂͐̄̃̈́̎́̆̑̃͆͒̌̉̆́͂̄͂̆̂́̍̍̔͂̀͋̑͆̕̕͘͝͠͝ ̸̢̡̨̢̟̦̗̘͚̞͖̫̤͖̮̮̘̰̖͍̮̗̺̤̖̪͂͐͆̈̀͐̚i̸̧̡̛̛̬̬̩̖̹̱̩̻̖̼̰̜̹͆̽̐̈́̆̑͛͊̆͐̀̅̍̎̈́̋̆̏̋̄̅̇̉̈́̿͂̓̚̚̚͘͜͠͝͝͝t̸̢̛̛̛̰̙͔̱̝̠͙͐̋̿̋͛̓̂͗̈́̀̊͌̈́̄͐͗͋̃̈̽͊̎̋̈͆̅̅͒͛̊̒͒̒̂̅͆̉͂̿͌’̵̧͉̮͚̈́͒̀̐̅ͅṣ̷̡̢̢̧̛͕̗̥̼̲̹͍͎͇̰̻̘̙̭̯̼̙̰̮̤̭̰͜͜ ̴̡̛̫̣͖̝̭̠͓͇̭̳͈̪̝͓͕͓̮̣̗̦̝̔̉̈́̓͋̒͆͂̊͆̓̆͊̅̒̋̕͘͘̚̕͝͝ͅn̷̢̨͇͉̞̗̫͓̗̦͉̬̟̯͖͓̱̪̝̻̗̝̠̘͓̣͎̘̟͎̺̩̻̼̳͈̫͓̣̠̞͇͊̏́͂̍̀̄̈́͂̂̔̕̕͘͜͜͝͝o̷͔̓͝ţ̸͎̬͂͌̂̀͂̅͋̑͐̎̋͘̚͝ͅͅ ̷̧̭͚̠͔̘͎̹̪̣̹͖̗͍͓̤̪̼͇̼̮̝̠̜͕͔̤͉̳̰̪̞͆̌̓̽̀̐̂̈̈͊͂̓͗͛̈́̉͗̒͌̅͋͌̎͗̌͑̿̾̄͑̓͒͋̽͘͘̕̚͘͝͝͝͝y̸̧̢̛̛̛̟̻͍̰̯̟͖͖̳͉̗̩̝͚̙͙͍̖̤̏̑́̎͂͌̂̃͌̿͂̈́͋̂̓̽̽͆̆̈́̈́̏́̇͐̆͂̾̚̚̚̕͝͠͠͝͝ͅǫ̵͔͔͙͉̙̹̘̪̺̝͔͈̘̬̹̈́̋̅͑̿́̊̄͒̅͘͘͜͠ư̷̡̛̙̺͈̗͇͇̗͂̃͌̔͋̒̋͐̃͊̔͘͘r̴̢̛̛͓̩̹̺̺̱̞͚̩͕͇̤̤̥̱͉̬̱̮̩̬̺͈͚̣̈̅͆̒̂̈̈́͂̈́̎͐̐͂̓̂͒̑͊̓͐̎̑̐͂̋̽̌͐̍̓̓̕͝͠͝ͅ ̴̢̛̛̞̳͔̱̤̹̖͓͈̻̫̲̯̮̱̰̝̹͔̞͕̺͉̖̥̫̳̻͉̝̲̤͈̯̙͈͇̩̘̭̱̏͒̍́̎́͆̀͂̀̾̑͛̏̄͂̾̃̍̊̅̽̐̅̚͘̕͜͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅŗ̵̢̳̙̤͕̠̺̘̞̰̳̭͓̦̭̺͚̩̍̇̒̔̉̿͂͋͑͌̐͂̇̾͒͝e̵͕͗̋̔͋̑̋̄͊̈̿͊̀̎͊̓̈̓̂̂̋̽̕͠͠͠s̸̨̧̡̧̨̛̛̛̛̜͓̼͕̤͓̲̱̞̟͍̪̥̠̤̞̙̗͍͔̣͉̪̳̺͓͈̤͉͛̃̒̈́̋͋͗̓͌̆̈́̈́̄̐̔̑̓͐͆̅̾̓̍̈́͒͆̌̒̐͆̕͘͜͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅp̶͖̫̲̗̥̰͍̬͚̺͇̤̮͔̖̠͖͌̈̾̔̓̇͊̆͂͝͝ơ̴̡̢̛̛̛̳͔̰̹̯̙̩̰̩̥͓̠͉̦͎͚̪̒̈́̈͒̈́͗̓͒͑͂̊̅̅̄̒̍̈́̊̉̓̈́̄̒͆́̑̒̈́̑̑̈́͘͘͘͘͝n̷̡̧̛͇͔̺̳̱̯̲̹̗̻̬̮̺̞̝̯̽͛̓̈́̆͋̑̒͌̿͋̒̕͜͝s̸̛̤̘̘̟̭̙̬̘̲̭̖͉̠̺̭͉̑͐͌̐̀̐͂̓̽̿̽̏̈́̉͊͛̃͌̈̔͛̏̆̐̐̾͂̕͜͜͝͝͝͠͠ḯ̶̢̛͓͈̭̺̰̖̫͓̝̩̞̼̻̩͙͇̝̘̠̗̳̱͔̤͍̚b̸̛͖̦̻̩͔͙͖̗͈̬̝̖̺̮̘̪̏̓̒̿̒͒̽͛̐̓̚ͅi̴̡͉̥̮̝̫̜͓̤̰̗̰̇̔͗́̊͑̂̒̑̕̕͘͝͠͝ͅl̵̢̨̨̨̨̰̞͔̝̺̣̦̳̺͙̯̰̹̣̘̘͇͕͚͉͇͍̺̗̹̩̰̜̜̣͔͙̫̩̲̣̂̅̏̌͆͆͛̿̀̅͂͂́̃̂́̇̅͗̉̽̆̐̈̽̄̐́̔̂͋̚̚͘͜ͅḯ̸̧̡̤̻͎̭̹̻̺̯̲̠͕̼̫̪̥̦̣̫͇͇̩͇̜̹̱͇̺̅̊͋̐ͅt̸̢̢̢̛͕̦̹̟̟̹̞͙͈̤͚͍̙̝̺͖̤͖̗͕̲̝̲̯͔̫̰̥̩̼̳̯̘̻̹̗͔̉̏̓̉͊̈̋̋̓͌͑͛͗̐̇͒́͂̊̓̈̐͒̃̑͋́̔̌́̆̐̿̀̂̚̚͘͘͜͠͝͝ͅÿ̷̧̢̢̢̛̩̜̞̩͎̜̼̗̘̟͉̗̟̖͈̣̥̻̩̟̰̭̱̪͍́̿͌̾͜.̴̨̻̥̭͎͉͔̦͍̪͈̱͎̱̥̠̬͖̱̦̹̤̲̞͔͈̦̟̙̳̻͚̫̰͖̟̩̗͋̆͂̈́̋͆̆̓̄̋͆̾͆͒̍͂͛̈́̒̓̏̿̿̌̈́̋̔͐̐̍̉̃̆̚̕͘͜͝͝͠͝͝͝ ̶̢̧̡͓̗̭̥̗̹̭̗̩̺̙͙̭͕̯̤̆̂͋͊̀̊̔̃̀̄̄̈́̂͂̈̈́̑̒̀͒͌̑̋̐̉̍̇͘̕͝

What I might have been thinking to cease all my instincts to hear it.

H̵̢̲̹͖̩͔̭̔͑̐͑̏̿̍̚͘̕ų̸̡̡̡̡̡̛̪̜̟͉͇̱̯̱̻͈͚͖̹̮͖͂͛̂̉̊̆͋́̇̈́̄̈̔͘̚͜͜͝͝ͅm̴̢̧̧̡̯͇̱̤̤̮̬̬̩̪͚̭̣̳̬̳̟̖̩̳̫̜̱̻̯͖͖̻̹̟̭͚͍̫̦̩͓̈́̑̇̿̈́͗́̃͂̍͆̅͆̿̑͗̽̑͒́͗̅͐̋̆̕̚̚͝a̸̢̢̧̡̡̡̫̲̞͖͓̩͈͍̟̟̝̘̩͉͍̞̤͈̣̳̮̰͉̠̰̟̟̩̘̒̌͋͆͋͊̑̈͗̊̏͑͋̈́̌̂̒̚̕̚͘n̶̨̢̛̳̗̠̭͎̯̟͓͇̠̭̝̮͕̫̱̣̪̳͚̺͖̜͙̼̓͗͒̉̓̈́̎̈́̃̎̄͒̓̽̌̓̓͗̌͆̌͂̈́͐̔͋̔͗̕͘͘̕̚͘͜͝͠͝͠s̷̡̡̡̧̛̠̪̣̲͖̙̱͔̜͇̭͓̰̬̜̰͍̮͎̱̬̝̙̭͉̲͈̥͚̣̪̖͙͔̲̞̻̭̼̹̼̑́̓̈́̉͑̈́̌̀̈́̐̃̈̂͂̓͋̍͒̈́̈́̎̔ͅ ̵̨̧̢̟͚̖̩̻̘̙͚̟̺̦̮͙̜̘̦̯̘̙̪͈̗̳͚̩̯̤͓̯̘̐̌͌͛͛̒̅̋͋͛͌̏͑́͊͂̋͐͘͜͜͠ͅͅd̸̢̧̯̮͓̹̗̩̝̗̱͓̫̠̩͇̰̲͇̭͊̎̈́̎̀̈́̓͜ơ̸̢̻̹͈̻͉̼̠̘̜͔̘͍͕̤̘̬͚͓̫̒̃͆̔̈̏̋̈̒͛͂͑̽͊̀̈̐͑̓̌̕͘͝͝͝ͅn̷̞̠͙̮͚̜͉̘͖͔͖͔̖̩͙͔̦̠̩̠̹̦̞͎̪̱̼̤̘̼̜͑̎̿̈̈́̾̓̆̀̄̀̽̓̿̓͒̔͘̚͠'̴̢̙̻̗͖͚̬̈̇͂̊͑̈͂̂̋͆̈͘͠t̷̨̯̹̫̜͕̘̱̭͇͍͍͙̹̿̈̒͌͜ ̶̡̛̛̭̤͈̼̖̗̙͆̽͂͊̎̂͋͗̈́̈͌̈́̇̍́͌̃́̏̆̂̿͐̈̈̊̐̈͗͛̾͗̐͂͐̅̓͘̕̚͝͠͝ḓ̸̛̤̰̠̜̞̺̳̪̜̱̞̽́̾̾̃̎̏̅̍̇̇̾̿̏̃̓͛͌̍͘͝͝ȩ̸̧̨̨̪̣̝̳̰̰̟͓͓̤̰̯̙̻͖̭̫͈̪̯̼̰͎̻͈̻͇͉͍̪̱̹̎̋̈́̈̿͑̍̄̐́̏͒̓̐̃̈̍̍̎̐̐̑͒̋̕͘͘͜͝͝͝͠͠͠s̵̢̡̧̢̟̳̳͉̗͕͎̞̩̝̞̤͓̣̟̠͇̯̼̤̫̰͎͉̘̹̱͉͈̱̻͎͕͔̙̟̈́̽̆̎͂͛̀̊͂͑͜͜͜͠ͅe̸̛͇̘̤̳̹̗̟͇̻̟̯̦̯̠͉̻͔̻͓̙͍͇̞̤͙͍͖̲͇̤̖̗̳̜̘̺̦̗̤͔͉̭̭̺̪̓̈́̽̈̈́͋͆͊̾̾̏̓͗̊̆̄͐̑̑̒̽̈́̋̔͛̚̚͝͝r̵̛̛͍̣͍̼̗͉̣͇̼̱͖̳̞͕͈̖̬̙̖̤̻̰͇̼̩͇̦͈̄̄̂̋̌̃̐͗̌͗̈́͌̐̈̈́͌͛͋͛̂͗͑̇̋͋̃̃͒̇͛̐̍̀̑̃̕͘͘̚̕͘͠͠ͅv̸̢̥̰͓̞͉̗̜̻̈́͌̈̈́̃̂ė̷̡̨̢̛͇̺̬̥͇̣̙͕̬̝̪̙̻̙͇͚͈̞͉̘̠̺͕̮̩̝̍̊̒͌̅̒̓̊͂͆̅̃̕͘͘̕ͅ ̸̢̛̺̙̖̪̥͎͉͔͍͍̹̞̠̙͖̮͑̾́̈̿̔̉͐́̇͂͂̉̎̉̑̎̽̉̽̾͆̾͋͑͒̽̍̑͆͘̕̕͘͝͝y̷̧̨̛̭̭̹̞͇͚̦̮̳͈̭̪̮̦̥͍͈͙̰̣̽̅́͛͑̓́̂̆͊͆̈́͗̍̎͂͊̇̿̊͆̿͗͛̅̂̑̿̄͐͘͝͠͠͝͠͝ͅơ̷̡̧̜̖̐̐̓̆̄͒̾̌̆͌̎̀̅́͊̈́̂̒̉͆̌̐̄́̌̚̕͘͝͝ư̶̢̨̧͙̙̗̗͔̥̱̪͓̝͇̤͕͎̘̘̫̣̗̳̠̦̫̲̪͙̯̞͚̜̬̥̬͇̩̝̭̲͎͖̼̑̏͌̀̈́́̊̾͒̔̓̇̅̏̂̾͆̽͛̄͝͠͝ͅͅ.̵̡͕̻͉͎̈́̒̐́́̊̂͗̕

But that was the problem with James: he cared too much.

And because he did, his body moved.

Without a thought, without hesitation to do what he believed was right.

And he ran away from me.

**And I didn’t realize**

“Arno, NO!”

**Until it was too late.**

James shouted, and his arms flung out, to shield the oblivious young man that he had went with without a thought, who asked for something James couldn’t give without consequence.

But how James did it anyways.

_CRACK_

And the shining, silver bullet hit his back.

“JAMES!” I couldn’t recognize my voice.

A shocked Arno hit the floor, unscathed.

The air was a blur, my body smearing and burning itself into existence, and catching James before he hit the ground. The crowd screamed and dispersed. So many frantic movements that threatened to undo me.

Undo us.

His tall, heavy weight was nothing, my arms snaking around his form, cradling him like a silk blanket. Because he was always like that for me. Burdenless. Light.

A Light.

“James!” Arno hollered, a pained chord holding his throat, keeping him captive. He came beside me, and his eyes shot up. Full of red, full of vengeance I had never seen him with before. And I followed his eyes, seeing the dark-adorned man, at the edge of a tiled rooftop. Legs spread with such confidence and purpose. The rifle in his hand, and his hand motioned to the trigger. The exit of it aiming to me, right between my eyes-

“ELYSIA!”

The shot rang free, and the killer stumbled, darting his gaze away to the pursuer on the rooftop not too far from him: Bellac pointing a pistol at him, having missed his mark by mere inches.

“He’s getting away!” Arno shouted, but I was already moving-

Precious time.

The café doors were kicked open, and I was inside with him, with James.

“Keep your eyes open, okay?” I commanded, laying James on the ground. His gem eyes flickered, and I went to work. The familiar bag of long ago, woven with memories and medicine that could repair any wound, any threat. That had saved many.

_You’ve never opened that_

“E-Elysia-“

_until now._

“Shut up, shut up!!” I snapped, not bothering to look at Arno kneel, “Hold him, on his side.” Arno’s trembling hands clasped his shoulder, and the blood pooled when I had ripped open his robes and shirt. The claws tore it like a spiderweb, and my sharpened eyes targeted the entry wound in his back.

“Stay with me, James-“

_Is he that important to you?_

“Elysia…” he gasped, and I jabbed my green-filled digits insi-

**_AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!_ **

The screams roared and scrambled in my head, and this threatening bolt ran up my fingers into my arm, into my body, my head-

**_AAAAGGGGGHAHAHAHAHHGHGHHHAAAAGGAGGAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!_ **

The voices SCREAMED.

My body jerked once.

** _DON’T DIE!!!_ **

The bullet sang its threatening song; my face had transformed, fangs in full view and eyes sharpened to slit as thin as paper. What the hell!?! What happened?!

** _DON’T TOUCH IT PLEASE!!!!_ **

“What’s wrong???” Arno grabbed my shoulder, and shook me. And I lifted my face with a snarl.

Arno froze. The hood hardly hid anything from him, as the sunlight caked the whole entire shadow I had tried to hard to keep up with. To hide in.

He let go. Saying nothing.

I looked away, and back down to James, who wheezed, whose fingers clutched at my arm, “…..James.”

** _You can’t save him._ **

"Don't." James strained, swallowing back on whatever threatened to expose itself, "Don't....this was my choice. I accept it...I accept _this_."

**It has to be this way. **

“No, no this wasn’t supposed to happen!” Arno snatched James’ hand, squeezing as hard as he could. There, I saw the tears stream, falling down his face and flying when he shook his head, “Why did you do that? Why!?”

"Honestly, Arno. Do you think I would stand by if--ngn--I knew I could act?" James grunted, shaking his head as the blood seeped at the corner of his lips, and how his eyes shined. Like…Lake Hylia. "There's so much...injustice in this world already...I don't think it'd be fair to…let it happen in front of me."

“You’re so stupid!” Arno argued immediately, and gripped the front of his shirt, “This is…this is all my fault….this is all my fault….” As he buried his face into James’ front, “No no no no…not again-“

_Please don’t leave me._

“Please, James…..please…”

_What a poor, little fox._

“Elysia, Arno are you….” Bellac’s voice died, his feet coming to a stop a yard behind us. Interrupted by the sound of Arno’s sniffles, and James’ heavy breathing.

"You told me you have someone to protect..." James uttered for only Arno to hear, pressing a hand to his shoulder, and giving it a soft squeeze, "There's going to be people worth protecting that'll need someone like you. So protect her, protect your allies, protect the citizens of France...like I did for you. Don't give up, Arno."

_Don’t give up._

“…..Leave us,” I replied. “…..Take Arno with you, and leave us, Pierre.”

"Boy, come on." Bellac gripped at Arno's shoulder firmly.

Arno resisted, and heaved his knees, “I’m not leaving him-“

“Dorian!” Bellac gripped both of his arms, and _yanked_.

“James, JAMES-“ Arno’s weak resistance was no match for Bellac’s stronghold, “No, NO, please, James! Don’t die, James! Don’t die-!!”

The café doors opened, then shut closed.

Arno couldn’t stop fighting.

He was so loud.

He was so loud in defying everything.

James exhaled weakly, a chuckle horribly wheezing out from his lungs, and garnering my devoted attention, "...Imagine that, dying in a café. Didn't think….this is how far I'd get."

I didn’t even know what to say to him.

“Come to think of it…I didn’t think I was ever going to be Master….heh….”

The blood continued to spill. It dressed my knees.

“Elysia….”

I removed the hood, and let the curls run around my face. My face had remained the same, and carefully did I scoop James’ shoulders up, and stretched my leg out to lay his head in my lap.

I slid his hood off, letting him assess. His eyes widened by a fraction, his finger twitching as he held my forearm.

“….I never got to tell you everything,” I admitted, and cradled his head in my bloody grasp. I leaned, and rested my head against his, counting the beats, “….I’m sorry.”

"Heh, you know...I never minded that you didn't....even though I had some idea you're not quite normal." James couldn't bring the strength to chuckle, an odd, broken sound escaping instead. "But nothing in my life was ever really normal...so...this feels oddly...relaxing."

Not a lot of time.

“Nothing in my life was ever normal either. But for a good while….” I brushed his hair back, and thumbed the tear collecting at the corner of his eye, “You made me feel human, again.”

_Impossible._

“And….I don’t want that to go away.”

_An unachievable dream._

“I don’t….want you to go away.”

_You’re a walking nightmare. _

James’ chest slowed drastically.

Nevertheless, his hand drew down, and his fingers curled to possess mine. His warmth was still there….it was holding on. For a little while longer.

"I'm sorry...I can't hold your hand forever....I think it was bound to happen sooner or later. Guess it just chose today of all days..." he exhaled uneasily, swallowing roughly. His eyes flickered up to me, like I was some goddamn angel, like I was…. "....I hope you don't give up on the others then...I don't think I'd forgive myself if everything went to hell because everyone simply stopped caring..." His tears slid, and his life force struggled to remain existing. To keep him with me. "Please, Elysia...don't give up on them..."

I held him tighter. Just a tad.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. I’m so fucking sorry,” I shook my head, and buried my face into his hair. It was so soft. It smelled like pine. Like the woods. “You are…the best out of all of us.”

_The best out of me._

"Heh...the best is still yet to be seen, dear mentor..." he smiled, like nothing was wrong. "...But I'm glad...I still made that favorable impression...despite it all....despite how short it was..." he inhaled weakly, and his digits squeezed tightly, ".....despite...how little I've done...and how scared I am despite putting on a brave face."

“I know..” I lifted my face, and brushed his tresses back. “I’m here….”

"Just...count to six for me..." he squeezed a hand barely, "...to help the...nerves."

_This is for the best._

“….Of course.”

He inhaled.

_This is the best for you. _

“One….”

His eyes flickered, as they looked up to me.

“Two.”

His fingers curled, and I held them. The other behind his head, off the ground, into my grasp.

“Three.”

He exhaled, chest heavy, but how peaceful he looked.

“Four.”

His eyes opened one last time, green like the Faron Woods themselves. More lively than Hyrule itself.

“Five.”

And they closed, his freckles shining brightly like fireworks.

“…..Six.”

And he smiled.

He stopped moving, his weight dropping.

And I held him in my arms.

My eyes gazed along his still face, and I cradled him up, tucking his face into my chest…in hopes that my beating, cold heart could somehow transfer into him. That he took my place.

Because he was more fit for this world than I was.

“Don’t go, James.”

He wouldn’t wake up.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

His fingers laid in my grasp, the warmth of his body abandoning the last shred of morality he had left.

He was gone.

+-+-+-+

Beneath the catacombs, there was a silence unlike anything else I had ever felt in my life. The bodies remained frozen where they were, and all chatter died, and a somber veil curtained the faces that looked my way. My boots rung true within the enormous rock walls, my red curls framing my normalized face within my tugged hood.

“Elysia….” It was Beylier, approaching me, but dared not come closer. His eyes inspected James in my arms, and the impatience he had on earlier left no trace. His mouth opened, strained, “…..I’m so sorry.”

I said nothing, and walked past him. A spare blanket on the floor, and I laid him there. Tucking his hood properly in place. Laying his arms on his abdomen, resting. He was merely resting.

“Where is Bellac?” Was I loud enough?

“In one of the quarter rooms, with Arno,” Sophie somehow got here, I don’t know when. I don’t know how long I had been standing there. “He came to get medical supplies, and left.”

“…Do me a favor?”

“Yes?”

“Send word to the café, for Stephen and Clement.”

“……Understood.”

I went in search for Bellac and Arno, and found them where Sophie had pointed out. I knocked on the door briskly, and stepped in. There they were, stationed away from the door; an exhausted Arno sitting in a chair with Bellac beside him, tending to his arm in silence. They stopped at my soft approach, Bellac standing up to meet me properly. Arno’s eyes remained on the ground; both of his hands curled on top of his thighs.

“How is he?” I asked softly.

"Mute." Bellac answered curtly, grimacing, "Silent the whole damn way here and since. Not surprised...but its damn near annoying me he hasn't said shit by now."

“Right,” I sighed. I pulled up a chair, and sat in front of Arno. “…..We need to talk.”

He took a moment, but shifted his gaze away.

“I need to know why you were there.”

He remained where he was.

“….I need to know why you took James, Arno.”

Nothing.

Bellac exhaled, “See?”

I rubbed my face, “……Yeah, I see.”

"I know it’s not the whole shock of seeing someone die...this...this is different." Bellac's lips thinned into a disgruntled scowl, "Has the same look on his face then day he was thrown into the Bastille."

“…..Then we’ll deal with this later,” I answered.

We sat quietly.

The minutes ticked by. Flawless. The blood hardened on my arms and knees. 

“….Where is he?”

“In the Grand Hall. With the others.”

Bellac sighed, “…….You did the best you could.”

“I know.”

_But it wasn’t enough._

I remained where I was, arms crossed, looking to Arno. He couldn’t even face me, his body turned to face the shelves instead.

A knock on the door.

“Come in,” I announced.

It was Sophie, who then signaled for Stephen and Clement to enter. She closed the door without another word. Both of them exchanged a glance, then set their sights toward us, reading the room instantly.

Bellac remained standing and leaning against one of the book shelves, watching Arno fiddle with his fingers on his lap, unable to lift his face up to properly look to his peers.

I faced them, “Take a seat.”

Stephen sat with polite confusion. Clement studied us, then fixated his cautious gaze onto Arno, and his injuried arm. His shoulders naturally tensed, slightly sitting upright.

"So what's this all about?" Stephen asked, settling his eyes on me alongside Clement. "Is everyone who needs to be here, here?"

“……” Say it. “…..James is dead. I’m sorry.”

The room stilled.

Stephen’s expression froze, “I'm sorry.... what?" A disbelieving chuckle broke on the last word.

"Where?" Clement stood up, "Where is he??"

And, when they saw I didn’t rebuttal, when Bellac moved his look away and Arno remaining where he was….

"No, no, there must be some mistake," Stephen insisted, standing up with Clement. "James is too good an Assassin, he can't have just _died_! That makes no sense!"

“……Arno was in trouble, and James did what he naturally would do,” I replied. “There’s a lot that needs to be explained….but being with James is more important right now.”

“That’s not…….” Stephen fumbled, his hands reaching up and gripping his hair, his chest exhaling deeply. Clement himself struggled to assess the news. And, almost in unison, did the two glue their eyes to Arno who remained seated behind me. The tense atmosphere building, threatening to coat the air with an unpleasant force.

"....Let us see him for ourselves..."

I inhaled sharply, “Then follow me.”

We went.

We entered the Grand Hall, the Masters ahead tending to the bodies laid. Stephen and Clement’s eyes traveled, somewhat alarmed and uncertain. Down the red rug we trekked…..until we came upon James laid on a blanket where I had left him, immobile and cold. Faintly smiling, or at least, the smile I once saw there.

The three of us remained standing, Clement stone as Stephen lifted his hand, and covered his mouth. Eyes strained. The muffled tears of nearby Assassins collected around us, grieving and mourning of the collective loss.

"Has anyone told his family?" Stephen asked quietly, voice cracking. His eyes were looking away when I gave closer inspection. He couldn't look at James. Nor anyone else. His eyes were wet and fighting back.

“….His uncle is coming soon,” I informed. “Until then, no. No one knows.”

"....._Did he die miserably_?" Clement probed. "_Did he die alone_?"

“_No….I was with him the whole time_,” I informed. “_Until the end_.”

Clement's gaze tore from his friend to the others that laid beside. Clement exhaled shakily, looking away from the miserable scene, "_And the others...were they all killed the same way? By Templars? By some murderer_??"

“….._Possibly_,” I answered lowly. Clement nodded, and said nothing more. I moved over, knelt, and gently fixed the lining of the hood to reveal James’ face in the soft light of the candles before standing back up. At this did Stephen snatch his arms around himself, and he trembled in place. Clement lowered his gaze. Both of their eyes wet, but how none of them didn’t dare lose composure.

I sighed, and rubbed my face roughly before continuing, “…..He was to be Master, in a matter of days. But, I think we’re all aware that he was already one, before the fact.”

They said nothing.

I shut my eyes briefly before starting again, “….If you need to be here longer….then take the time you need. We’ll wait for his family member….until the cremation.”

Stephen inhaled a wet, shaky breath, before clearing his throat lightly, "Is there anything else you need from us right now, Elysia? Or do we have permission to leave?"

“…….No. You may go.”

Stephen didn’t wait, tugging his hood firmly on his head as he hurriedly departed down the hallway. Leaving Clement beside me. “….._You may stay or go, Clement_.”

Clement merely stared at James before he looked to me, "...._I'm going to stay_..."

“_If you need me, I’ll be at the café, with Charlotte_.” He nodded.

I gazed to James one last time.

Frowning, I left.

But I knew what awaited me there.

When I opened the double doors, and the crew of the café was there. They had closed early.

Charlotte rushed to me, and asked me what I had been dreading to answer all the way coming over here.

“What happened, where’s James and Arno!?” she shook my arms.

And I told her.

She screamed, into my arms when she clasped herself onto me.

I didn’t fight her. Not when she slapped my arms and chest, or when she shook me. Not when she dragged me to the floor when she threw herself onto her knees. Or when she curled herself into me.

Like she did a long time ago.

_You know what you did. _

I wrapped an arm around her back. The café crew all stood behind, watching Charlotte with melancholy expressions.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

_She’ll never forgive you for it._

I didn’t expect her to.

+-+-+-+

That could’ve gone….a bit better.

Shay had seated himself in his newly acquired desk, and did his best to rewrite the names he had in that book. After perhaps an hour of getting some information down he settled himself back, and rubbing the sore muscle of his shoulder. Not the most graceful fall….

“Unbelievable,” he sighed heavily, shaking his head.

Though, his eyes narrowed at the memory, of when he shot the bullet in their direction, and when the taller Assassin fell-

The way that woman _moved_.

The quill in his grasp thumbed roughly; the pieces of ancient findings connecting bit by bit. The possibilities, the explanations. He hummed, and pulled out the small booklet in his coat. The red ribbon held his place, and there he skimmed.

But nothing he reread helped to distinguish what she….might be.

“Shay?”

“Hmm?” he didn’t bother looking up.

“Your guest has arrived.”

Shay nodded, “I’ll be downstairs.” The steps retreated, and soon after did Shay exit his room, and stride down the spiraling staircase. He fixed the cuffs of his sleeves, and then the collar of his coat to flatten properly.

Standing in the foyer was a tall man, same height as Shay himself with hair slicked back and admiring a nearby pot of flowers. A nice blouse, definitely of wealth and elite culture, but not from this country. It was intriguing.

Shay motioned with a calm stride, one hand behind his back as the other remained on his abdomen. When the stranger turned to greet him did Shay reach and smile politely, “You must be Mister _Dubois_.”

"Indeed, I am. And you are Mister Cormac, I presume?" the Japanese-looking man took the extended hand firmly, giving it a proper shake before letting go. He then tilted his head to the side; a smile on his lips as one finger (where an exquisite ring rested) rose against it, the other arm framed around his own torso to give his vertical limb a prop to rest against.

“Yes, I am. Glad you could make it,” Shay gestured to the Library of the small house with a small jerk of his head, “There’s much we need to discuss about. Join me for some tea?”

“I’d be delighted to.”


	16. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New chapter already, what's going on this time, champ. 
> 
> So. Heading out next month and I won't be available during a good chunk of it, and thought to take this out. There's a chance the next chapter might be out before I leave, or it'll be ready when I come back (which is around the end of September).
> 
> Also: Comments are back, but only registered users on AO3. The moderation of comments was only directed to the crazy anon from before, because he literally stalked me around all my other platforms and took the harassment to a new level. Which, by the way, you should know how to behave on the internet. I ain't your mom, man.
> 
> ANYWAYS, thanks for supporting us as always guys, we really appreciate it and your tremendous patience is something to behold. We still have a long ways to go and Elysia is ready for the journey! Enjoy and until the next update!
> 
> -Keys

_Bring me a dream._

_“We’re just playing a part.”_

_The carriage swayed smoothly, and the crumbling ground sank into the lulling fog below. The silence was accompanied by a static noise. I felt it_

_Thinning the air in my lungs._

_The dress was absent; my bloodied sleeves were rolled up to my elbows. The maroon cracks set themselves like the bark of a tree on my knees and down my legs. I faintly looked over, seeing another arm linked with mine; the man unaffected by how the fresh blood rubbed against his ornamented blouse. Afraid to lose me. _

_Tell me that my lonesome nights are over._

_Paris’ streets played across the dimmed windows, the rich complexes blindly radiating. I looked straight ahead._

_“Hey.”_

_A voice I hadn’t heard in a very long, long, long time._

_“If you need advice, I’m here.”_

_My eyes met his, “I know.”_

_“You’re fit for this.”_

_I shook my head, “I’m not.”_

_“You’ve dealt with worse.”_

_“…..Nothing like this.”_

_He reached, and he squeezed my hand, “We die with honor.”_

_I’m so alone._

_“I’m tired of people dying by my hands. In MY hands. I don’t want THIS anymore.” My whisper tore and flamed my throat, “And it happened.”_

_He smiled sadly, “You can’t control everything, Elysia.”_

_An ugly reminder. A constant reminder._

_“I know.”_

_I looked away to face the seat in front of us, impulsively occupied. A casket that opened on its own. I stood up, and there a hooded figure lay. Her nails broken; her long hair splayed across her face. Her mouth slightly open, as if she had sung a last song. A last goodbye._

_“We’re just playing a part.”_

_I gripped the edge of the coffin, and my fangs expelled out; elongated, deadly, inhumane. _

_“Tonight is over.”_

_“I can’t do this.”_

_“Tonight is very important.”_

_Turn your magic beam_

_My shoulders dropped, and a pained gasp expelled out of my chest. The casket fractured, and instead Najla’s body laid in my arms. Lifeless. A cold corpse. My face facing the sky, because I couldn’t face her._

_How many times do I have to bury her?_

_“I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore, Cecillio.”_

_"Are you ready then?" Cecillio held a hand out, his russet bangs spilling over the side. He looked young, frozen in time when he had given me that same smile, "One way or another...things will turn out fine."_

_But things weren’t fine._

_They were far from fine._

_ He offered one last look, "Don't forget to come and say hello."_

_I shook my head, and when I looked down, Najla was gone._

_Instead, all their bodies laid around my feet. Everyone._

_Bo, Lorenza, Renado, Vitalia, Charlotte, Beylier, Ilia, Rose, Ezio-_

_The floor was secreting, and the blood rose to my knees, and suddenly-_

_“You’re not built for this.”_

_It sunk into my eyes; my entire body engulfed. I kicked frantically, the liquid prying my mouth open. Drowning me. All the bodies bouncing against me like I was a magnet to them. My arms kicked and my body spun in an infinite spiral._

_I struggled._

_“You’re never going to be the same person again.”_

_My eyes shot open, and they screamed at the man who had struck the Master Sword in my chest, and through my back. _

_Alessio smiled, “I suppose this is your way of handling things.”_

_Bring me a dream._

I shouted. My hands flying. Clutching my chest. The claws had arisen in desperation, and I winced when I removed them out. The red stained the white, thin blouse. The rip exposing my chest.

I couldn’t go back to sleep, nor did I try.

**You need to move on.**

My eyes stung from the sleepless night; the coffee cup empty now. The sound of unconcentrated footsteps vibrated from the hallways of the manor. I kept my eyes down, the quill mindlessly swaying in my grasp as if I were writing.

The desiccated Charlotte strode in with mindless direction, soon enough heading to the café counter once she got her bearings. She ignored my presence, served herself coffee from whatever I had brewed not too long ago, and stirred her sugar in with a flick of her wrist. The silver spoon hardly clattered when she set it down, and she walked around the open flap of the counter to acquire something out of my view. Her hair was a mess.

“Morning, Elysia.” It was Mathias, dressed in a dark, green shirt that was tucked in his light pants. His slippers brushed against the large rug of the floor, and the chair creaked when he took a seat at my side. We watched Charlotte silently, and it wasn’t long until she gathered her cup, avoided our gaze and removed herself from view. The creak of the footsteps ascended until the door of Charlotte’s bedroom clicked closed.

“It’s been two days,” Mathias sighed, running his hands up his exhausted face, cheeks sharp and curving the path of his digits. Whatever remained of his dark locks were graying out, or at least, grayer than I last remembered it.

“I can’t speed up grief,” I replied, laying the quill down. “What do you expect me to do?”

**It’s not your responsibility.**

"I don't expect anything from you." Mathias drudged his fingers against his temple, threatening to carve indents in, "It's Charlotte's constant great depression of spirit I worry for. It’s as if she cannot will herself to see beyond the sorrow at hand. It's...a sensitive matter, I understand, but...we have to move on at some point."

**You know what you did.**

“I’m…not exactly the right person for that,” I answered, immediately earning his hard look. “You’re living here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes I am, but this…..” he paused. “….You know how she felt about James.”

“….I can’t bring him back,” I swallowed my pain.

"I know...but we have to do our best to keep the living afloat."

I thought for a moment, “….Any word of Giselle and…Orfeo coming back?”

"I received a parcel from a carrier this morning. They're expected to return by tomorrow morning,” Mathias rested his temple against his finger. A small letter was pulled from his pocket and held between his free fingers; he laid it at the corner closest to me. “…How are you?”

“….With?”

His lids lowered.

“….Fine,” I quipped, picking up the message, but didn’t bother to actually read it when I set it back down.

"I see." Mathias stood up at this, and served himself a cup of coffee like Charlotte did. He brought his cup to his lips, though hardly a sound emitted, "The ceremony is today, isn't it?"

“It is.”

“….” He hesitated for a moment. “Take care of yourself, Elysia.”

“…..I’ll try to.”

We parted ways.

The sky was dull this morning, the usual fog dry and stinging like a massive, agitated beehive. It hurt to breathe so deeply, as if a noxious gas extracted whatever moisture my body was harvesting. The edges of my eyes cracked with every blink, and my knuckles screamed with every stretch and pull I made to arrive at my usual entrance of the hideout.

Beylier was there, and straightened when I came forth, “Elysia.”

I stopped. Horse hooves of the morning merchants filled the uneasy atmosphere. Beylier fought the words, the same sentence I’ll hear over and over again today. But he knew me better than that.

“I sent an Assassin to wait by James’ apartment,” he moved along, and I internally thanked him for that. “They’ve come back to inform me that his uncle has arrived.”

“…Okay.”

“I shall accompany you.”

I didn’t fight Beylier, “Where is he?”

“With Mirabeau.”

“Alright. I’ll follow.”

Once we went underground did the feeling disperse, but a newfound dread clambered along the middle of my back. We caught eye of Mirabeau down the pathway, and for a moment I thought he was speaking to some sort of rock formation on the wall or someone behind a pillar…until the tall silhouette moved.

Easily standing at about seven-feet-high, the visitor had shoulder-length hair, strands of white and gray intertwined at different sections. It was kept in a low tie to touch his upper back. His face had probably been handsome once; high cheekbones and a square jawline covered in ash threads. Wrinkles trekked along his forehead, or what was visible of it behind the few locks that escaped to hang in front.

Teal eyes that were burning gems when they caught me.

The same eyes that James had when he was burning with life.

“Morning, Master Beylier and Master Elysia,” Mirabeau introduced, bowing his head momentarily before lifting it back just as quick. “Thank you for arriving. Masters, this is Bernard Haul, James’ uncle.”

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Haul." Beylier replied, and held his hand out. Bernard simply raised his hand in a polite wave, and Beylier retracted his gesture in understanding. "I would like to offer you and your family our deepest and most sincere condolences. We have worked collectively with James for the past couple of years as if he was a part of our own family. He showed much promise, especially under the tutelage of his Mentor: Elysia. Everything he has achieved here in Paris has had much impact on many people's lives. We are proud to have known him, and I can only hope our prayers ease you through this difficult time."

"I see." A deep, gravel sigh expelled out. If Mirabeau hadn't had his hands tucked behind his camp, it would've been easy to expose the jolt that ran along his shoulders. Bernard scanned their faces before stopping upon mine, indelibly lingering. "He's hardly spoken word of his endeavors here, unsurprisingly, but that is no one's fault but his own. I thank you for your kind words on behalf of my nephew. His mother...will certainly take those prayers to heart."

I tried, “…If there’s anything we can do, rest assured we will do our best to provide you with what you need. He had an apartment here; you are more than welcomed to take what you need from there.”

He didn’t look away, "....I plan to. There are old heirlooms that...would be tragic if they were lost in the wrong hands."

“…Right.”

“Then we shall go together for that,” Beylier nodded, giving me a comforted look.

Mirabeau cleared his throat next, “If you’ll excuse me, I must make sure everything is prepared.” He proceeded off, the group of bodies flowing inward toward the Grand Hall.

Beylier turned to me again, “Do you know where Clement and Stephen are?”

“….On their way, maybe,” I didn’t feel confident about the answer. “….Is Arno still with Bellac?”

"Yes….Last I saw of him."

“….He’ll show up, then.”

“I hope you’re right.”

And we moved to follow the crowd, down the stone steps as Bernard Haul stalked right behind me. Then, we curved inward to avoid the vast space of the Grand Hall and into the chambers tucked underneath the staircase. Assassins and Mentors walked in a steady, somber rhythm, the light of held candles igniting the darkness of the Lower Tombs.

Here, the bodies laid in their Assassin robes and with whatever important possessions that had been tied to them. Leisurely did the clusters of hooded figures stop at their chosen destination, to the body that called them. Soft murmurs and sniffles coated the stone walls…..

I reached the end of the aisle, where the bodies of Masters would lay for cremation: James, the one and only who died with a such a title. The statues of previous Masters enormous and towering around the ending apse in a half-moon shape; one statue I tried very hard to ignore…. but how he loomed above us, his stone eyes burning through my head and somehow managed to unsheathed every defensive layer I built.

He must have known I hated coming in here.

Here, I saw them: Clement and Stephen beside one another, standing alongside Sophie and her team and respectively standing with their hands folded in front of them. The shadows of their faces darkening their expressions away. Across the way, hidden in shadow was Arno standing idly by with the unhooded Bellac, his face down and his drooping hood emphasizing that. Bellac, however, remained with his head high, and exchanging a small nod to me.

I approached the middle ground, the crowd parted behind me to allow Mirabeau to walk through, a book in his hand and a candle in another. He made his way to stand on my free side, frowning.

“_Are you ready, Master Elysia_?”

_I’m not ready._

“_Oui_,” I lied.

He nodded briefly, then faced forward, his back to me to let his irenic voice properly intone in the chamber.

“_Brothers and sisters. Kin to the Creed_,” he paused. He straightened up, “_Our mortality reminds us much of every day; the sun when we wake up, the way the birds sing; when we hug our loved ones, when we fight every battle that dares to cut us down, to the time we close our eyes and rest. The world is full of many challenges, each of us facing a battle we may or may not be aware of_.”

The sniffles and soft sighs filled the chamber, and I felt James’ uncle shift beside me. Immense from everyone else. A reminder. An ugly reminder-

**It’s not your responsibility.**

“_Although that may be….we are all connected in the Brotherhood; no brother or sister is left alone. We are family, and every lost Assassin, every lost soul in this room did not leave without us, nor do they leave us. We stand together, always and forever….alive and in death. They watch us, and they will watch us until we too join them. This is not the end….but it is a rebirth, a new beginning. It is only fair we continue to carry on, to make sure their sacrifices and efforts were not in vain, and we each fulfill our role and live our lives….just as they could have_.”

At this did Mirabeau lend his candle to me, “_I must go through each cremation, but rest assured, I will return_.” His footsteps faded, and I was left with everyone else, as we stared to James’ lifeless body.

I held out the candle, my steps loud in my ears until I finally came to his side. The color of his face had completely left, but his hair shined still, as if it had been brushed mere minutes ago. He appeared peaceful, with his hands on his stomach and his head straight on the stone bed. A small smile still lingered.

I rested the candle to the side, and worked to remove the belt and hung pouches. Gently, did I remove the effects; tying it back up to the third hole as he had it, and slung it over my shoulder. Next, I cradled his arm, making sure the other stayed on his front. I turned his cold arm and unstrapped the ties to his Phantom Blade where his hidden blade slept. Once detached, I repositioned his arms and held his concealed weapon.

I could hear Mirabeau’s voice praying voice in the distance, along with the other voices of the neighboring clusters of mourners….but I just didn’t know what to say to mine.

**It’s not your responsibility.**

“Do you mind if I say a few words?” Beylier requested.

I nodded, and stepped down to stand properly beside him.

Beylier cleared his throat, the light of the candle illuminating the side of his face orange from how near it was, “….._As I’m sure you all know….James was a good man. He was always there to lend a hand, whenever he saw someone in need. Including me.” _He smiled lightly at this_, “We were lucky to have him, and in turn, he was lucky to have a team who cared about him just as much. Even then, his personality captivated us all, whether we had known him for years, or even for a second_.”

“_I can…agree to that_,” Sophie earned the floor as she stepped forward to further add, “_James was unlike any Assassin I have met. A young man of many talents; we were honored to have him around, both in partnering missions and in the Creed itself. From my team to yours, Master Elysia….we will miss him just as much_.”

Beylier looked to me.

“…_Merci_,” I answered. I inhaled and closed my eyes, “……_We will miss James. No amount of words….can express our loss. We thank each and everyone one of you standing with us, with him….”_

The room fell to silence again, and it hurt to raise my head and momentarily look at Clement and Stephen not too far off. Stephen’s eyes were glued onto James. Clement in turn scanned amongst the bodies, but when he saw no one would say a thing did he take a step with tense shoulders.

"_There are hundreds to millions of people on this Earth...but none could compare to James's kindness and wit_..." Clement frowned deeply, bowing his head down, "_Merci...for everything you've done without even an ounce of thanks. You'd sooner push it to the side, graciously accepting it as a personal duty then out of what is expected of you. It's shaped who I am... who we are as individuals_...." He stopped from going further, stepping back in line with Stephen.

“Kid had spunk,” Bellac replied next, his arms relaxed at his sides, despite the way his fist clenched when he took a breath next, “If there’s anything I learned from James is that you can’t stop change from happening. Despite the odds that he was facing from trying to resettle a foothold in London for our Creed, he never once stopped believing it was possible. We should follow in his example to work from the ground up, because without it, the change we want won’t be possible without commitment.”

The cluster fell to silence, replaced with small sniffles and the occasional murmur of something James did once. A nice memory that would soon make everyone else lightly laugh of his antics. The way he ruffled everyone’s hair like an older brother. The way he smiled to cheer someone up from a depressing day. His gentleness and kindness.

Until finally-

Mirabeau arrived, and bowed his head to address James, “_He was an exceptional student, and a Master in the end. Despite my reluctances from the beginning….James proved to be the Assassin we all aspired to be. And to be frank, Elysia_-“ he held my shoulder at this, “-_he couldn’t have been in better hands, than yours_.”

** _And what a terrible fate he met._ **

I swallowed.

“_James Haul, will forever be a part of our family, as we are a part of his. It is our hope that we all can come together, to honor his name and legacy, and carry that with us for as long as we shall live. Mr. Haul_,” Mirabeau addressed his uncle next, who in turn almost scrutinized us from one mere look alone, “_If you have some words you would like to share_….”

"_My thoughts are to my own, as his life before is entirely different from the reality you know today_." He resonated, resting his palms in front of him, "_I will not sully nor disrespect the kindness you see in him. He was a young man of many things, and I will not discredit to what exactly he is_."

“Understood,” Mirabeau replied. “_Then, we shall proceed. Master Elysia_.”

Beylier had James’ belongings. I don’t remember when I had passed them over to him. Did he take them from me? Had I moved since Mirabeau’s last word?

“_Whenever you are ready_.”

_I’m not ready._

I stood before James’ body, the stone bed nothing compared to the ice of his skin. Yet James laid there, remaining motionless. Unable to stop me. I lifted the candle and its light, the edge of his robe doused with oil as the rest of his clothes were to speed up this process. To finalize his last tether to the world.

“……”

But I couldn’t bring myself to near it closer. It remained hovering, and it was only then I realized my arm was shaking. The flame trembling.

The flame that would snuff out the remaining Light that saw good in me. That saw me more than I was.

A friend.

James was…..my friend.

And he died.

He died in my arms.

And I couldn’t do anything to help him.

_Clank_.

It was hard to breathe, my arm steadying itself as the base of the candleholder pressed against the slab of treated stone. The shine of my eyes hidden deep within my cowl. My pressed lips repressing.

I looked at his dead body. His very dead body.

I clutched the stone, like I clutched the casket.

Why couldn’t this be….a dream. A really bad dream.

A dream I would wake up from. And then James would be there, waking me up on the dining table in Charlotte’s manor, with that stupid fucking goddamn insufferable smile of his-

The tears fell, quietly down my cheeks and down my neck. Away from view.

**How it should be. **

I grasped the edges of his cowl. Cradling his head. My forehead against his to feel the heartbeat one last time. It wasn’t there.

**This is how things should be.**

“_Requiescat in pace_.” I tugged the hood up, making sure his hair was tucked in neatly. And I kissed his forehead, his lashes long and still, “……….Goodbye, James.”

The candle was back in my hand, and I lowered it to his robes. The flame caught, and it swam to soon possess his entire entity. I shut my eyes when I had stepped back to be beside Beylier.

Everyone else watched the burn for me.

We stepped out into the Grand Hall, and soon I was met with many faces.

Faces I had seen in passing, those in higher positions and then students. I hadn’t realized how much of an impact James meant to them, almost every single one having met him more than once. Then, they were directed to both Clement and Stephen who were mostly quiet, but respectful of the sudden flood of devoted attention. I kept an eye on them along with Beylier….but a mere turn and I descried Arno who had secluded himself away from the ambush, and against the pillar in a shaded area. Bellac and I met eyes, and I knew what the signal was when he jerked his head to our student’s position.

Talking to Arno wasn’t going to be dodged, despite how much Arno himself wanted that. So, I made my way-

I halted, staring at Bernard who had interrupted my path.

“….Is there something I can help you with?” I asked.

"You were my nephew's Master, were you not?" He interrogated unexpectedly, eyes challenging mine, "...What sort of malarkey did that boy think he was doing, to openly meddle with things forbidden to him."

What the hell.

“James only did what he thought was right, and he remained solidified in it, despite what happened,” I tried to diffuse his hostile chide, because why did this have to happen now.

"I mean **_you_**."

The venom in his throat singed the air between us, and his glare held a thousand suns.

My fangs threatened to cut through my gums, “Excuse me?”

Bernard gladly clarified, and pointed at that, "Your kind does not tend to mingle amongst _humans_, and yet here you stand, disguised and _powerless_ to have even saved my nephew from a preventable death."

The claws clutched and raked against my back, my eyes slightly opened from the sudden and true accusation.

I remained calm, “....A bullet that was metallic in color, and I could not touch it. Believe me when I say….I would’ve done everything in my power to save him, Mr. Haul.”

"....Then you are dealing with no ordinary human after all." Bernard regarded with a sharp tone, "That bullet had likely been imbued with silver itself, enough that it'd render your abilities useless. You'd die a human death on the streets if it were you who had taken it."

“I would’ve taken his place if I could’ve.”

"If James had been half the man that he had been raised to be, you would have."

My anger rose, “….James deserved better than whatever you gave him.” 

"And he deserved better than being burnt to ashes."

“While that may be…” I stood before the giant, unafraid to crane my neck as I shot him a glare. My pupils sharpened, “All you’ll have for the rest of your pathetic, brittle human life is _that _memory alone.”

"And unfortunately for such a regretful mouth such as yours, you'll have to live with it." He towered further with a glower, but I remained adamant from his intimidating approach, "His blood will forever be in your hands...and we will not forget that injustice so long as the Hauls exist. May whatever Gods or beliefs you draw in bring you comfort, or smite the very ground you stand in mercy."

“Unlucky for you, I don’t have **_any_**,” I couldn’t resist snarling out. I pulled back the hood, and glared right back at him, “Now get out of my sight, **_human_**.”

Bernard was not one to back down, nor did I expect him to….but he impulsively did. His eyes fleetingly shifting upwards past my head, and the color in his cheeks whitened to snow. Teal irises that paled to that of a sick sea. A tainted lake.

He shot his bitter stare to me. Then took off.

I targeted his back as he cut through the hall….and of course, our bicker had caught everyone’s attention, glances being exchanged between the two of us. I rubbed my forehead roughly, shaking it once. What scared him off?

Bellac came beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder, “Hey, what the hell was that about?”

“Don’t worry about- wait, Arno-“ my head whirled.

Arno was gone.

I sighed, running my hand up my face, “Damn it.”

“Agh…this damn kid,” Bellac huffed, running his digits through his dark, shaggy hair, “Leave him to me.”

At that did Bellac leave, and I was almost tempted to follow after until I caught sight of the two bodies of my remaining students standing idly by. Finally, Stephen and Clement were alone, though they didn’t share a word nor a glance to one another. I mustered whatever consciousness I had left and made my way over. The sound of my steps warranted their attention, and it was obvious none of them were spared of a clean face. Stephen’s watery eyes and Clement’s slightly red nose was enough indication of their feelings.

“….How are you two?” it was the stupidest thing to ask…but it was all I had.

"Could be better..." Stephen said quietly, voice hitching slightly. He displayed a small pained smile and a wet chuckle, "You?"

“….Managing,” I truthfully replied. “Clement?”

".....Trying to accept it," he swiped his nose.

“As we…all are,” I added. “_I wish to ask a favor, Clement_.” He waited. “_We need to go to James’ apartment, and I know you two lived in the same complex_.”

He looked down at that, hooking his thumb on his belt hoop, "...._Of course_..."

“We’re heading to James’ apartment, Stephen. Or you can either come with, or…..go back home. Your choice.”

Stephen glanced to Clement without hesitation, "…Do you want me there?"

"....Sure. Just..." He looked to the side, "Don't judge the mess..."

"It's probably better than my place, no judgment from me."

I quirked my mouth slightly at their shared gesture, “Then it’s settled. Let us be on our way.”

The faster I dealt with his uncle….the better.

The complex was what I had envisioned; simple and somewhat a decent size, with wooden balconies in the front. It didn’t take long for me to hear the shuffle of some footsteps in the higher floor, and the sound of Bernard asking questions to Beylier who had brought him (bless him).

Clement made a pause on a prior floor, and we continued to trail behind. At a worn door did Clement pause and take out his key. A turn and the door unlocked.

"Sorry it's..." He searched for the words, "....tight." Stephen and I raised a brow, but didn’t ask.

The bulkier Assassin strolled inside, stepping over a pipe that cut between the doorway and the rest of the room. It was hardly occupied, a mat in the furthest corner; a makeshift bed with only old books and novels serving as the mattress. Bowls littered the floor, some picking up droplets of water that trickled from the moldy ceiling, and others had traces of fish. Pairs of eyes lifted from awkward places in the room. One was tucked underneath a shelf while the other stretched and hid in the curtains. It hissed as we all entered.

"_These are my other cats, Monet and Manet_." He gestured to the duo, the one hissing deciding to stay as far away as possible while the other peaked its head out curiously. Clement awkwardly stepped over a broken floorboard, making his way to an old vanity that barely kept itself intact. "_Sorry, it's going to take a second to find the key. The woman that owns this place specially made these keys...and it's difficult to organize which key is which_."

“Take your time,” I replied, feeling somewhat……terrible of his housing situation. There was no way he was sleeping in here. Not like this. “…._You were sharing the room with James, weren’t you_?”

"_Sometimes_." Clement admitted, rifling through his clothing, "_I didn't want to impose him all the time, only when it was a stormy season and the ceiling would be near close to collapsing. Paris hardly has any room; I had looked for weeks to the point of giving up. Even with his help we had come up empty handed until James asked the woman who he had gotten his room from.”_

“Hmm…I see.”

Clement found the key, twisting it in his palm with a quirk of his lip, “_Old lady didn't even have a place to offer me...she just... made this space for me to get James to stop badgering her. I didn't mind...it was enough for me_."

“_We’ll see if that can change_...” I nodded my head to the door. Once exiting the poor excuse of Clement’s apartment did we head upstairs to the sound of Beylier and Bernard in the hallway.

“Sorry for the wait,” I replied when we arrived beside.

“It’s quite alright. I was having an....interesting conversation with Mr. Haul,” Beylier commented, stepping aside as he let Clement through to open the door.

"Interesting indeed." Bernard agreed, and clearly avoided looking my way, "It seems we have adversaries in common..."

Clement kept his head down, unlocking and pushing the door open for us. Bernard didn’t wait for an invitation, almost pushing Clement out of the way with his broad arm. The giant had to duck his head down to even enter the room properly.

I motioned with my head, “Beylier,” as Bernard intently marched his way toward a specific location of the apartment.

“Let us search this side of the room,” Beylier understood as he patted both students on their back, leading them in the opposite direction. That left me to follow after the colossal-pain-in-the-ass.

We were in the bedroom, a fixed bed without wrinkles on the sheets until Bernard sat himself on it, and fiddled with the nightstand. I kept a distance away as I hunted through the compartments in James’ dresser to quicken his search. The way his uncle hunted put me on edge, but I did my best to not mind him-

_THUD._

Bernard had pulled out the nightstand’s drawer, and broke his fist through the wooden bottom. A flicker of a color glimmered from his hunt that immediately was stuffed in his belongings. The papers that had been in his way were flicked onto the bed carelessly.

I approached with caution, standing on the opposite side of the bed and scanning his visibly tired face.

"....He was far too young that boy...full of potential..." Bernard sighed lowly, "...and now my sister will have to bury another."

“…That’s unfortunate,” I replied.

"Must be a trivial thing to you...to be numb to these sorts of feelings," Bernard's gaze flickered to me, tightening in displeasure.

“….On the contrary,” I started, “I think I care too much.”

"Hmph, you'd be the first-“ I don’t think he believed me “-A rarity considering I can't quite pin you to anything." He searched the surface of the bed, tucking his hand underneath the pillow and pulled a stone to slip in his pocket again.

I didn’t stop him, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea; I’m better left a mystery than to have any sort of name.”

He readily countered, “It's not your decision whether or not it's a good idea. In our society, we make it our means to learn of every unnatural being out there. We do what we can to protect what must be protected..."

“…He got that from you.” My eyes adjusted on the one pillow; I didn’t register picking it up, but it was in my grasp now, and my palm brushed across it. “I used to think it was so annoying; the world seems bleaker without his righteousness in it.”

"His ephemeral righteousness might have been overzealous...considering where it landed him...but it would have ended in a similar way one way or another. He cared too much for people, no matter their background."

“Maybe…. you’re supposed to do that,” I battled against his defiant, biting stare. And how the past threatened to replay again. “You don’t get anywhere in life….if you’re nothing but a machine.”

_“You're the same way, Elysia.”_

He held his resolute expression, "There is a difference between idealism and relativism. One must learn the way of the world to understand it best to keep moving forward. To be a machine, to be human, even beasts know this pinnacle rule; none of it matters unless you understand the inner mechanisms of society and those that truly rule it."

“…I’m sure he loved you too.” I held his stoic, annoyed expression.

We continued our search, Bernard unafraid to move the furniture noisily if it proved itself difficult. He had pried open almost every obvious compartment, disrupting the neatly folded shirts and few trousers James had rearranged by color. The only place he hadn’t checked was under the bed….

I bent down to reach the proper level, squinting at the oddly, spotless area. My eyes sharpened to give me a better look, and lo and behold, James had snuck a puny chest in the mattress itself. One hefty pull, and the springs were easily moved, and the box was balanced in my free palm. It garnered Bernard’s attention when I had settled it on the bedsheet.

I examined the front latch.

“Locked?” Bernard asked, standing beside me.

I lifted a finger, and inserted my nail into the keyhole where it extended to a claw. One swipe within the mechanism, “Not anymore,” and the device broke. Opening it, a quick inspection revealed two small, woven bags that excreted a specific scent and a bundle of papers where I recognized James’ writing.

Picking up the bags, I sensed Bernard growing absolutely still, and I didn’t have to open it, “These are yours.” I dropped the items in his opened grasp, digging at my palm with my nails to remove the tingling sensation.

Bernard reviewed the contents delicately, then gingerly tucked them into the folds of his coat. Then, he watched me. I told myself to ignore him, but after a few moments of not looking away did I stop my trifling, and meet him directly despite having to crane my neck.

And how his height bothered me to a degree.

“…Yes?”

".....What makes you so different from the others?" Bernard's question came out as a contemptuous whisper, "What is it that enthralled my nephew to assist you, to assist this order? Why.....did he find **_you_** worthy of all the dangers that came with it?"

“…If you want me to be honest, that’s something I always asked myself the first day he got here.”

Bernard remained silent, somehow spellbound of my hard look.

“….Until I was with him for the last time.” My shaky lungs held, my fingers holding the sides of the chest, as if it cradled all of the memories. “If what you say is true….James must have known who I was, _what_ I was. Sometimes….when you’re alone, when you’re cast out in a place you know you don’t belong in, naturally do you find someone who understands you. ‘_Home isn’t a place, it is people’_, as I have learned many, many years ago.”

"Hmph...to find comfort in the unnatural...so _typical _of him.” He faced the window. I tended back to the papers at hand, sensing Clement entering the open area of the bedroom and facing Bernard. He looked a bit tense, but he managed to spill out his intentions gently.

"I think...James would have wanted you to take these." He offered a wooden box to the taller man, filled with small rounded paintings. Bernard took the crate in one arm, the other hand searching through the collection.

"…You live in this building as well, if I’m not mistaken?" Bernard asked.

"I do...your nephew is the one that helped me get it."

".......Then I think it's only fair you take this place."

Clement's face lifted suddenly at this, pale and unable to utter something out. Bernard held a specific rounded painting in his large palm, a forlorn blanket veiling his eyes.

"I'm done here. His ashes and his belongings will return with me to his _home_-“ he emphasized that word “-where he may be properly buried."

"Again, we're sorry for your loss." Beylier noted, having gotten up from a chair to meet Bernard halfway to the door. He offered him a hand, one that was meekly met, "If you ever need aid of any kind, know that we're only a letter away."

"....I'm sure it will not be needed."

I earned the floor with a call to his name, and Bernard’s obstinate stare met me one last time, “Expect a letter from me then.”

“What for?”

“When I catch him.”

He didn't say anything, and departed.

The room eventually went back to slight movement, Stephen moving himself over to lean over my shoulder.

“Whatcha got there?”

Closer inspection. Debating swiftly. “…Beylier, I think you should head out to assist Bernard on what he needs.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah…I don’t think he likes my presence that much,” I persuaded.

“Then I shall see you later?”

“Perhaps.”

Beylier bowed his head, “If you need anything….”

“I know.” The dark-skinned Master left with a last bow, and once he left, I nodded my head to Stephen and Clement, “Close the door, and shut the windows.”

The two remaining students shared a glance, but did as they were told. For extra measure did we stuff a blanket underneath the crack of the door. We all circled the bed when we finally verified Beylier leaving the structure. I rearranged the notes; drawn lines, linking several sections together like a map of sorts.

“What’s that?” Stephen squinted, and tilted his head to look at the chart at an angle.

“James was looking into Mirabeau.” This prompted both men to stare at me, Clement needing no translation for that. The French-man lifted a piece to assess the written notes, and his eyes widened further at our discovery.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised by that,” Stephen revealed with a small scoff, “Always had my doubts on that guy.”

I recalled, “Do you remember when Mirabeau had assigned us specific tasks, mostly dealing with spying on several targets?”

“You mean when the Creed was under quarantine and we were bored out of our minds?” Stephen added. I translated it back to Clement who held his chin thoughtfully.

“_Something about it….bothered James, from what I remember_,” the French-man agreed.

“_I’ll admit it, I had some disagreement with it as well, _” I sighed. “_I tried to dissuade his concerns….but you know how James was_.”

"So, I guess the question is, what are we going to do about it?" Stephen asked, popping out a hip to lean to the side. “Do they mean anything?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. I will call you to Charlotte’s café when the time comes,” I replied. “No one finds out about this. I will inform Arno when it’s...doable.”

"Why should you even bother?" Clement urgently interrupted, as if he had known I would mention the Dorian. "He'd be too impatient." Stephen’s gaze shifted to the ground.

I regarded them both, “...Tell me. What do you think happened? Do you know how James died?”

The air thickened at that, and neither one of them answered me.

Until, "….He wasn't supposed to be on a mission, it was our day off," Stephen’s anger intertwined with his low tone.

I pressed again, “Do you think it was Arno’s fault James died?”

"He didn't put the bullet through his back." Clement’s sullen expression didn't match the tone he held, "_But that doesn't explain why he took him. Why didn't he ask you or Bellac??”_

The man almost trembled in place, and for a fleeting moment did I see the internal fight visible on his face. Of trying to remain calm, his eyes attempting to remain dry. Stephen, lost in translation, silently agreed to his anger. They were both angry.

“_Why couldn't he trust you enough and instead put James at risk?! How can **you** expect us to work alongside someone who couldn't think to see consequences in his actions_!"

_“You're the same way. Elysia”_

“Yes, you’re right-“

“Then why?!!” Clement finished, throwing his arm down between us. “_James is dead. James is **gone**_. _While Arno-“_ His clubbed hand whitened from the brute force he gave it.

_“Perhaps....I’m just like you.”_

"….Arno could have asked for more help than just James," Stephen spitefully remarked, but his eyes couldn’t meet mine.

**It’s not your responsibility-**

“It’s my responsibility,” I retorted, my voice soft. My cowl fell to my shoulders, and my feet carried me to stand between the two. They both avoided me. My teeth gritted, and suddenly the armor I carried earlier…. “You’re all my responsibility. If Arno had asked all of you...I would have to have burned four bodies today, not just **one**. A-And…I don’t think….” The tears welled, and the back of my hand pressed against my mouth, “…I don’t think I would’ve been able to live with myself if that….happened.”

The silence reinforced itself between us when my voice cracked again, earning their shimmering eyes to me.

“...As much as you don’t want to hear it, as much as you wish NOT to believe it.... His death does not fall in the Dorian’s hands.”

Clement's jaw set in place, unsatisfied, unable to accept it. He shut his eyes tightly, his head shaking side to side to try and calm himself. But it was just too much for him to bare-

He tugged his hood over his head, "E_xcusez-moi_," and he let himself out.

I didn’t blame him. His footsteps became faint when he reached the lobby of the complex, leaving me alone with a melancholy, troubled Stephen. Yet, Clement’s departure was enough to set the other student in motion, his distraught face scrunching and his watery eyes releasing the pent emotions. Nearly setting me off balance of the unpredictable embrace, his arms locking me against him. His forehead buried into my shoulder.

"I'm just so upset..." Stephen's voice wavered to get that out, “I’m sorry about what I said earlier… You didn't deserve the thought of all of us dying like that..."

“….It’s okay....” my chest tightened, but instinctively my arms followed, tugging Stephen’s lean waist to me, “I _know_ you’re upset. And so am I. And so is Clement. And Arno.”

We parted a moment after, Stephen nodding weakly as he cleaned his eyes off with the heel of his palm, “I understand.”

“I’ll send word to you, but until then…get rest. We’re going to need it.”

We left the locked apartment, and I tucked James’ secret notes in tow.

To make sense of it all.

To make an effort….to keep us all afloat.

Because whoever this Shay was….he was going to face an opposition he had never seen before.

_“I suppose this is your way of handling things.”_

Yes, it was.

The waves drew him back home.

The trinkets of what remained of James in his possession, and the ashes that embodied his soul, his very being. Of what was left to bury.

Bernard stood at the railing of the ship that would make port to their homeland. To where the rest of the Hauls waited.

But how….how heavy the heart weighed.

“Yet, you still choose to stay,” he caught himself whispering, a slight edge to his tone. His eyes met the distant city of Paris, and the memory of the underground cavern stuck in his mind.

And the way the redhaired woman betrayed everything Bernard had built himself around. The things he knew to be true….tested. Questioned when she remained impenetrable to his logic.

And the ghosts that hovered above her. And there were hundreds of them.

Inspecting Bernard, each warning him with a look that said: **Don’t you dare.**

Then, the one, recognizable eidolon that towered behind her, as if he had never left her side. Because then did Bernard realize: James was as stubborn as ever, even in death.

“The dead….weigh heavily upon you, Master Elysia.”

He looked to the small, bedizened chest that held the symbol of the Creed.

“And….somehow, they all still depend on you to keep living.”


	17. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the chapter for next month before I head out!
> 
> I'm unsure if an October chapter will be up but just in case, this one will be considered both a Sep/Oct release, sorry lads. Things are going to start picking up after this, so consider this a.....resolution of sorts to some issues.
> 
> As always, thank you for the support and thank you to my co-writers for still sticking with me thus far. Until next time, see you guys soon and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Keys

The night conjured the ambient sounds of lurkers outside; crickets sung their mating tunes and the rustle of the city’s trees. A few people had tried to enter the café in hopes the doors would be open late as it usually was, but were met with no response. The single candlelight within the glass walls fluttered with every turn of parchment; James’ hidden notes laid and ignited yellow.

I analyzed the smudges and put those first in the order. The disconnection of sentences that would continue to the next page further aided me to reconnect James’ exact train of thoughts. And soon, all the pieces of the puzzle were put together and I read through everything he made visible to me.

_ Mirabeau is up to something. It baffles me that everyone questions his methods, yet no one challenges him to do anything different. Why are we left in the Dark, to serve the Light from our own Masters? Do they not trust us to carry the burden of Truth?_

Then….James was unashamed to reveal his true feelings sometimes.

_ Still, there’s a notion of privacy that lingers within all walks of life; one that I should take more care of realizing and accepting. Within the Creed, within our relationships to one another; how frustrating that concept can be. It acts as a cape to shadow and hide away one’s true self. Perhaps the motto to work in the Dark to serve the Light can be seen as a willful dream. To cast your own ambitions away, to muddle your hands in dirt and blood, in order to secure the future where one doesn’t have to hide who they are. _

_I’ve been hiding for so long that it hurts to look whether or not I’ve entirely discarded my own. Perhaps expecting Elysia to come forth with her own is rather conceited of me…_

I worked through the night, the manor in dead silence but James’ voice very much alive in the wake of it all.

_I do my best to serve Elysia, but I can’t shake this feeling that she doesn’t trust me. Not entirely at least, maybe not yet. It shouldn’t bother me…but it does to some degree. _

Why.

_“How can I trust you, if you’ve never taken the time to actually show how you feel??”_

Why did I do the same thing **_he_** did?

_“Whatever it is you’ve bottled up always wins, and no matter how strongly I respect you, you always give me a doubt about who you are, or what you’re thinking!”_

How…infuriating.

_ I want to ask her—there’s so many things I want to know about her. We’ve known each other for a while, I would have assumed to have learned something by now. But…I’m not so sure if that’s a good idea. I don’t think she’ll like that suggestion._

I found myself sitting back, and looking ahead. Remembering whenever James was around me….wondering how many times he actually battled with himself to ask me something. That he was……so afraid of me.

But that’s what I was trying to do, right?

**Don’t get attached.**

Because….that’s what I thought would help me. Help everyone. Keep everyone away from me. And yet….my negligence, my way of acting let someone I cared about still get hurt.

_I should tell her…why I left England. _

_Why I couldn’t face my family as being one of the most useless Hauls in this round of a century. That I thought I could bring myself a kind of honor that didn’t go around killing the unnatural world that converses with ours. I wonder if Elysia would understand or if she’d put space between us. I might not have to fret over being outright slain but…years of conditioning hasn’t put the notion away. _

_ No…perhaps not today…but another day. _

I’m a fucking idiot.

_ Trust is not a one-way streak that many of us expect to follow. So…I shall do my own part, someway, somehow._

For actually….following his exact example. Being my mentor’s exact shadow.

_ I’ll gather more proof against what Mirabeau has been up to…and if the opportunity ever presents itself…I’ll be honest. _

I made it so….hard for everyone. Why did I make it so hard?

_ If these notes were ever to be found…then perhaps you could forgive me for not speaking up sooner. _

I’m no better.

_“You’re the same way, Elysia.”_

**You know what you did.**

_Creak_.

Marceline entered the café parlor, fully dressed in her work attire and her dark braids tied in a bun. She avoided my gaze, but not for long; I managed my way over to her, seeing her pause momentarily at the container of coffee. I couldn’t exactly….blame her for the way she reacted; I already made it apparent in the manor I wasn’t someone to approach so….openly.

“_Madame_ Elysia,” she bowed her head.

“Elysia is….fine,” I corrected.

She seemed stunned at my soft tone, her brown eyes averting to the side “….Of course.”

“Is that for Charlotte?” Marceline nodded. “Is she awake?”

“She is.”

I searched for the words, “How….is Charlotte?”

Marceline hummed for a moment, preparing the new brew to make, “Struggling…._Madame Charlotte_ hasn’t been herself since you mentioned the news of your mentee.”

“Right…”

“Was it yesterday? Mathias happened to mention it,” she replied when she served the fresh cup.

“It was.”

“How was it?”

“….As well as it could’ve gotten,” I answered.

“What about the other boys?”

“They’re taking it as well as they could, I would think.”

“Understandable.” She collected the porcelain cup, the small container of sugar and a spoon onto the silver tray. I held out my hand to her, and she stopped at my offer. “Do you wish to take it to her?”

“I need to speak with her; her avoidance isn’t a coincidence.”

Marceline gave a sad smile, “It’s not my place..”

“You’re an employee here, not a servant,” I reminded her, and this suddenly eased her tense shoulders. Her hands remained rigid on the object, “What is it?”

“You’ve known Charlotte for a longer time than we have…” she searched along the wooden counter. “I’m still unsure about you.”

“You have a right to be,” I agreed, making her direct her dubious gaze to me. “My intentions with Charlotte are not hostile nor violent.”

“I trust your word on that,” Marceline debated yet again. “Then….answer me this, child.” I nodded momentarily. “How did you meet Charlotte?”

My jaw tightened a tad, “…She was abandoned, and I helped her get to Paris.” She blinked in surprise at this, and I continued to clarify, “She lost family members, and I had nowhere to go. We got together, and I led us to Paris where I got into contact with the Brotherhood here. Hence, how we acquired the theatre-café.”

“I see….she never mentioned anything like that.”

“It’s a painful memory and I do my best to not bring it up.”

Marceline nodded, and she handed me the silver tray, “Then I will go ahead and purchase some things to make her breakfast, and stop by the other café on my way.” 

She departed with extra money in hand from me, and I proceeded my way up the stairs. I paused by the door, gave a light knock, “_Come in_,” and entered Charlotte’s scented room.The curtains were drawn to put the whole quarter in total darkness, aside from the dim candlelight beside on her nightstand. A forgiving, orange glow pooled in the chamber’s vicinity. She sat up as I rounded the bed. However, she frowned that it was me entering the premises. I set the silver tray in front of her, and sat beside where the extra chair had been positioned. No doubt Marceline, Grisier, and/or Bridgette had been keeping an eye on her this whole time.

A taciturn atmosphere tethered her tongue.

I sighed, “…Charlotte.” Her vacuous eyes didn’t look my way, and her mouth was slightly parted to exhale rather than to answer me back. Her cheeks were entirely cracked and dried of endless streams of tears, and I can only wonder how much of James’ passing….really affected her. “I’m sorry.”

“Why do…the people I care about keep dying?” she managed to forcefully push out after a good five minutes of silence. She didn’t bother to hide her low sniffs, running her sleeve across the bottom of her nose. “H-He didn’t deserve that. Our James didn’t deserve _that_.”

“He didn’t…but you know why he did what he did.”

She cried softly at this; her sniffles muted in a spare napkin she had tucked underneath her pillow. I merely waited until she was coherent enough to look at me, her cheeks glistening from her emitting rivers.

“Charlotte,” I opened my palm to her, and she looked to it.

_“Are you….alright?”_

_Her eyes spotted my own, and they widened. _

_“Who are you?”_

_“I’m the person who saved you.”_

“Everything is going to be alright.”

_She hesitated. Questioned._

_But she tentatively touched my bloody fingertips…._

“Do you promise?”

**Are you going to lie to her again?**

“….Yes.”

**Don’t you learn?**

I had to try.

The café opened at its usual time; Grisier the greeter and server, and Marceline and Bridgette making the orders. After an hour did Charlotte come downstairs, fully dressed with light makeup to help the two out. A lot of the regular customers asked her how she was doing, and I knew she was doing her best to keep a smile. In the meantime, Mathias (done with doing most of the expenses and numbers for the café), met with me outside. The fountain was malfunctioning; the spurts of water merely leaking out and challenged with the grown vegetation and duckweed harboring in it. With my sleeves rolled up and hoodless, I went to work, ignoring some of the brief looks I received before continuing my chore and conversing with the accountant.

“Mathias,” I greeted as he waved a hand up to grab my attention. “…I spoke with Charlotte.”

"And how is she fairing?"

“Much like everyone else, but that’s expected.” I dug at one of the outer pipes, making sure the brush got most of the algae out.

"It is; death is a fear that festers when someone is lost to it. I'm certain it's only a grim reminder of the reality we work in."

I kept my eyes on the fountain, sighing, “…It’s a bit more complicated than that….but yes, you’re right.”

Mathias hummed, taking a sip of his coffee, "Perhaps you could explain...?"

“She just…reacts differently to death, that’s all.”

**You know why.**

I continued, “The best thing we can do is be patient with her.”

"Of course, though it makes me wonder why she joined the Assassins of all groups." I held my breath, scrubbing softly. He debated for a moment but sighed dismissively. "But it’s still no easy feat the first or hundred times after....so we shall hope for her steady recovery."

“….Pretty much,” I swallowed. “Distractions of the café will be good for her for now.”

“Speaking of which….” Mathias looked past me, luring me to follow suite.

A well-cared, four-seated Berline carriage rimmed with crimson parked itself at the main entrance of the manor. The horses fussed gently against the rider, nudging themselves to the pails of water that were set aside for them to drink. With that be taken care of, the rider took to opening the golden-handle door, Giselle being the first to step out and her son close behind. Lastly was Orfeo who ducked his head to avoid being hit, fanning himself with a stolen hat likely from Jaq.

“Excuse me,” Mathias placed his empty cup on the stone bench beside and made his way over to greet the arriving party.

I turned to my chore at hand…though it wasn’t long until I felt the peering eyes of the young teen. Jaq peered over the edge of the fountain’s stone rim, looking up to me with repressed anticipation.

“Hello, Jaq,” I replied, resting my elbows on the rim as well, peering down to see him slightly crouched. His bangs still hung over his eyebrows, babying his face more now that I had a clear view of it. 

"_Hi, Elysia. Did you miss me_?" He began casually, his arms tucked securely behind his back (clearly hiding something) and beamed. "_Is that your actual hair??? **WOW**, I didn't realize hair can get that red, it looks so cool on you--and you have tattoos?? They look old, and I mean like ancciiiennnttt_." He tiptoed at this to get a better look at my limbs.

“_I did tell you I was immortal. Did you forget already_?” I tapped at his head with the handle of the brush, hearing a small _gonk_ when I did.

"_I did almost forget_." Jaq chuckled, waving the handle away, "_But I won't forget this time!! I swear_!"

“Uh huh,” I got back to work again, but that didn’t stop the garrulous Jaq.

"_You look tired. Have you been working all day out in the sun trying to fix this??? I can help if you need it, I’m good with my hands!” _he inspected the spouts with a quick sweep of his eyes.

“_I’m always tired, Jaq_,” I played off, and carried the conversation, “_No but thank you. How was your trip? Did you stuff bugs into Orfeo’s pillow like you told me you would_?”

"_I tried but he had beaten me to it_." He pouted. Nevertheless, he freed his arms from behind his back to bring up a wrapped bottle. "_We brought gifts though, my mother told me I should give this to you so I could take the credit for it_."

“_Ah, that’s…unexpected_.” I blinked, taking the neck of the bottle, though my eyes averted, “…_Were you supposed to tell me that last part_?”

"No..." He poked his fingers sheepishly together, "_But how else would you have believed that I'd gift you with wine?? You know I’m not old enough for that, even if I had the money to afford it_."

“…My lips are sealed,” I made a motion across my lips. Then, I smiled mildly, “…_Thanks for the gift, Jaq. You didn’t have to_.”

"_I wanted to; you saved my life! I've been trying to think of ways to repay you without grumpy Orfeo and his bread_." Jaq's pucker ignited once more, drumming his fingers against the curved rock, "_He was teasing me the whole time about it too. Said I should bake you the bread myself but he knows I'm no good at baking_."

“_You don’t have to_,” I answered, resting the bottle within the dried pit of the fountain, “_I, um…don’t worry about it, okay? It…just be safe, when you go outside_.”

He patted his own chest confidentially with a self-assured nod, "_I'll try, always am every day. Yeesh....it was only three times_..."

"_Three times too many, Jaq_." Orfeo's voice cut in the conversation, the older man leaning his hip against the exterior display. He teasingly plopped his lower arm on Jaq’s head like an armrest and knocked on his forehead like a door, "_Your mother wants to tell you something_."

"_Already_???" Jaq groaned, swatting at his hand swiftly, "_It hasn't even been ten minutes_."

"_I don't make the rules, but I'm not about to let her have my head over it_." Orfeo patted the kid hard against his back, "_Go_."

Jaq stumbled once, but vowed with confidence, "_Mmmm I will be back, Elysia_!" He speedily ventured out to the main gate, leaving the two of us in relative silence. Orfeo's face dropped once he was gone, sliding it over to me instead.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked. I shifted my glance, seeing Orfeo lift his digit up, and slide the tip across the lower section of his eye. “You got that……_look _on your face.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” I noted. “It must be your imagination.”

Orfeo didn’t let up, scoffing lowly a second after, "Riiiight, clearly my imagination must be running rampant right now. I swear that you’re turning into a raccoon before my eyes.”

“…..What the hell is a raccoon?” I gave him a stare.

“…Never mind. I'm taking the shop didn't burn down while we were gone?"

“No, it didn’t. I told you it wouldn’t,” I reassured, digging the brush into the clogged opening one last time before giving it a good shake or two to remove the excess. “You should have a little more faith in Charlotte’s team for that.”

"They're still a bit too new for me to get a sense of who they are as people." Orfeo admitted with a slight shift to his eyes, crossing his arms, "I had more faith in your words, not theirs."

“That carries a lot of weight.” I caught his dark orbs, one hand adjusting my sleeve properly.

"You better believe it; might get into spats with you sometimes but I'm not that stubborn to admit you keep your word."

_“…maybe in turn he’s changed too…”_

_Thump-thump. _

My eyes blinked wearily, my body automatically leaning against the fountain for firmer support. There my hand placed the brush down, and for a moment....

"Hey."

I slowly turned my head, seeing Orfeo standing right beside me. He inspected my face.

"....Yeah?"

"…Was it something I said?" he studied me judiciously.

I took a moment, “……No…I…it caught me off-guard, that’s all.”

"Surprised?" He reiterated, raising a brow, "I mean....I can understand considering how we normally treat each other."

_“…maybe it’s best if you move on, to start something new.”_

I must be out of my mind.

“Be honest with me.”

“….Hmm?”

I exhaled out, feeling the bags of my eyes burdened further, “….Did you ever stop caring…..at one point in your life?”

His knuckles curled against the rim of the fountain, studying it like it would reveal all the answers to him. "I have. What about it?”

“…..When Augustine stopped caring,” I pressed, immediately observing how his brows furrowed, and how distant his tenebrous eyes had gotten from that mere name alone, “….did you hate him for it?”

His tone was utterly drained, and slightly dismissive that I even dared to move this conversation further along. "I can't remember....back then."

“You seemed to remember it fairly well when you both argued in the room,” I replied gently, observing him closely. A flinch of pain washed over his face; his lips pressed tightly together. He gazed to the side, his eyes narrowing and his fingers latched to his hip.

"It just...rushed back when I saw his face..." Orfeo defended mildly, trying to change the conversation, "Besides, even if I could remember it all clearly, I know I pissed him off and he returned that hatred ten-folds back."

“…I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you for how you reacted when you saw him.”

He fought against his frown, "I don't know what you wanted to hear from me. Maturity, forgiveness for something that was so long ago...."

“I don’t know either…” I straightened up at this, mildly scrubbing the inner curve of the fountain, “…sometimes I wonder if that all really happened. If I dreamt it, if any of it was….real. If it was right.”

"What? Dealing with him?" Orfeo sighed sharply, looking towards the wine bottle with a harsh glint in his eye. "Not sure, you're the one that...might've actually seen if he changed or not...I didn't want him even near me."

“He changed after that day. You changed him, even though he never wanted to admit to it, or if you even want to accept that,” I answered him with a brief look afterwards. He remained silent at this, moving his hand across the engravings of the stone consisting of vines and bell flowers. The words battled in his mouth from the way his tongue slid underneath his lips, across his teeth. Eyes averting and avoiding my look. I guess I had that effect on everyone.

I picked up the brush, hitting it clean before dumping in into the bucket at my feet, “….I’m not…..mad at you, Orfeo.”

"....Why would you have been mad at me anyways?" He scoffed lowly, "I haven't done anything to you."

“…You kissed me and left with a smug look on your face,” I arched a brow, earning his immediate stare. “I think that added some sort of effect.”

".............._Right_." Orfeo had a face; a mixture of disbelief and revelation of the sudden memory, "I thought you were implying something _completely_ different and I was thrown off a little bit to be honest with you."

“…Uh huh,” I rolled my eyes, picking up the bucket with one hand, and gripped my gifted wine in the other. I made my way to the front door.

Orfeo trailed after, his hand vertical against his straight nose and signaling it forward with purpose, “Listen, we were having a very straight-forward conversation and you made a _severe_ left.”

I continued my way to the back of the manor, settling the pail down, “You have some nerve leaving like that.” I rested my hand on my hip, looking up at Orfeo who stood in the space of the doorway. I pointed the neck of the bottle to his direction, giving it a little swirl, “Every other woman you’ve done that to might’ve fallen head over heels for you, but I can assure you…I’m not easily swayed.”

"Oh?" A felicity of a smile rose upon his lips, "But you were swayed nonetheless."

The edge of my eye twitched a tad, “Let’s get one thing straight—“

“Mhmm?”

I stood in front of him, the opening of the bottle picking up his chin; his eyes looked downward to me from the lifted angle, “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but I’m probably the last thing you ever want to mess around with; the woman you saw in that dress centuries ago isn’t the same woman you’re looking at right now.”

"You don't think I know that?" He raised a brow, hip out, "People are allowed to change...” He pushed the bottle downwards to properly look at me, "But I'm not an unreasonable man either. You want me to back off, I'll back off. All you have to do is say so."

**He does have a nice smile…when he means it.**

I rolled my eyes, my cheeks flaring on reflex, “……_Honestly_.”

“You're setting yourself up for a dangerous game..." He trickled out a deep chuckle, "Wonder where did all that hot air and huffing went."

“Continue with your cockiness, and you’ll be losing your own game,” I warned. I rested a hand to his chest, and pressed his back against the door’s jamb, “And I don’t think you want that.”

"Mmmm....not sure. I think there's still a winning variable in it." He held my wrist at this and thumbed along the inner part of it, "If you think you're up for the ride..."

“That depends,” my eyes scanned his face, down to his chest and back up, “On a lot of things.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

I tilted my head, gold irises peering up past red curls, “You sound very sure about that.”

He smirked, "I am. Why would I try to lure you in if I wasn't confident?"

“Your confidence is _something_ to admire.” I stepped back and waved my hand behind me as I walked on. His chuckle strengthened as he came up behind, enticing me to face him again as we stood by the open window nearest Mathias’ Study.

"We wouldn't have gotten this far if I didn't keep at it. Then again, you have your own confidence in this too." He tilted his head, and let his voice drop an octave, "You are the one that pulled me in for the kiss."

“Then don’t give me a reason to regret it,” I resisted gazing at his satisfied smile for too long. I thumbed to the window to where Jaq frantically waved his arms toward us, “Your best friend is calling you.”

"You sure? He looks like he's calling for you."

_“ORFEO, WE’RE LEAVING!”_

The baker gave a curt stare, but let his shoulders slack a moment after with a soft sigh. He rested his shoulder against mine, long eyelashes flickering fleetingly as he glanced over my expression, "I'll be seeing you around, Elysia."

“I’m sure you will,” I tapped the wine bottle against his chest this time, looking back up to him, “I can’t finish this all by myself.”

There, a smirk bloomed, "Then it's a date...."

“…Go. Before I change my mind.”

Orfeo walked himself out to the front gate where Jaq excitedly tugged at his arm. Giselle commented something to Mathias before giggling into the palm of her hand, then moved her look over to me where she waved. I waved back—

_Knock knock_

“Elysia.” My eyes averted behind me, the shaggy-haired Master standing by the entryway of the backdoor. Bellac frowned, “The boy is gone.”

I narrowed my eyes, “….I think I have a pretty good idea of where he might be.”

The road was occupied by several travelers of Paris, unaffected by the inner city’s tautological turmoil and civil, rebelling battles. The grass swayed in a soft dance; bent from the weight of the mustangs we rode on. The sun was at its evening height, the rocks warm and simmering slightly. The horse galloped casually under my grip, Bellac himself keeping level with me.

He muttered once or twice, “This damn pisspot,” but kept mostly calm during our surmounting travel to Versailles.

“Are you really surprised?” I met his eyes.

"Didn't think he'd come running back here..." Bellac scoffed, easing the grip on his reins. "Could've easily just tuckered down in a pub or his own damn place than come all the way here."

“He’s not that simple; we were fools to think otherwise.” Bellac shifted his solicitude look; he hardly was ever nervous, but he was human as anyone else. His jaws tightened, and I could see his cheek swimming with the internal tension he fought against. “….What aren’t you telling me?”

At first he said nothing, then, “I might’ve gotten into a spat with him beforehand.”

“…About?” I pressured.

"I had to get a clearer picture to why he went after Shay in the first place—I thought..." Bellac's jaw shut tight again, frustration lingering from the blows that must’ve been exchanged, "I thought someone told him what Shay did to his father, that he's the one that murdered him."

“…You told him—“

“Like I said, I didn’t know—“

I sighed, running a hand up my face, threatening to remove the cowl right then and there. But I resisted, and calmly reclaimed my reins, “…We’ll figure it out. He can’t keep running….no matter how hard he tries.”

"Tch, I hate to say you're right..." he glowered. “He mentioned living in the _de la Serre_ estate, but it's been nearly two years, think that place is still standing?"

“Only one way to find out.”

He exhaled almost dismissively, "The boy needs to learn to grow up."

Growing up was an understatement.

We made way into the border of Versailles, and stationed our horses at a nearby, organized stable. From there, Bellac and I parted briefly to ask various peaceful residents and civilians of the name _de la Serre_ and where his last property was. Slowly but surely did we piece our evidence together, and approached the abandoned mansion.

Graffiti dressed the front block walls, though the French windows remained eerily undisturbed to the outside world. One clear look around to make sure no one pried in our business did Bellac and I round the large estate’s ground toward the left side. An alleyway gave us cover, and with one hoist did Bellac aid me up over the stone rim cluttered with overgrown vines.

“Open the front door for me would ya?” Bellac announced, already walking back.

I set foot into the spacious backyard where the wild grass thrived underneath my feet. The hedges overtook the stone benches, and the wilted leaves of the seasons dressed the entire pavement. A mistreated fountain rested near the center. Though, a path through the fallen leaves directed my sight to my left…where a headstone of a grave laid in wait.

A bit behind the headstone was a statue of a goddess, equipped with a spear as she pointed it diagonally upwards to the sky. Her body was dressed in stone ribbons, and wings carved to perfection, folded behind her back. Again, my eyes dropped to the grave where the grass overtook the dug-up dirt, and the freshly plucked white roses that had been placed on top of it.

_Francois de la Serre_

_1733-1789_

_Julie de la Serre_

_1738-1778_

Arno was here, or at least it was evidence that he was…

My boots walked through the tall weeds, and led me to the open, French window. One quick leap and I was inside the mansion itself, nearly colliding with the wooden planks that had been thrown inside. Had it been boarded up once before to prevent entry?

The entering lobby…was not what I was expecting. It was clean with a pile of broken glass, splinters and papers near the entrance. The abandoned furniture and trinkets had been dusted off, and everything else that was invaluable had been shoved beneath the space underneath the spiraling staircase leading to the second floor. I unlocked the various gadgets on the front door, and stepped aside to allow Bellac in.

“Took you long enough,” he quipped and took a good look around. “…Not what I was expecting.”

“I think he cleaned it,” I replied. Bellac said nothing. We essentially split up, carving a warpath through the house.

“Dorian!” I called out, searching the West rooms.

"We know you're in here!" Bellac searched promptly ahead on the East.

Impatience grew with each unsuccessful turn. From the kitchen to the foyer, another study, guest rooms and a storage…there hadn't been anything that suggested someone had been in here despite the swept lobby. Undisturbed, frozen in its perpetual state. When Bellac had found a locked door, it was with a slam of his shoulder that it would be thrown open, revealing nothing but a boarded-up room. Former belongings of the _de la Serre_ family that no one would miss. All except for Arno Dorian who could not be found....

"Tch...surprised nobody has trashed this place yet." Bellac commented from a sector of the mansion.

A _creak_. Almost mute if I not remained still.

My eyes blinked, and I looked up to the ceiling above us. Up the staircase I went wordlessly; Bellac in tow who noticed I was determined on a spot. The varnished, wooden floor was dusty, and thrown almost carelessly was a broom at the top step. Not too far to the left was a pair of doors…slightly ajar. I motioned my head to Bellac, and the two of us strode silently over. I pushed the door, and the creak from earlier sounded just the same. Inside was a Study overlooking the mansion’s front yard, and in the corner of the almost vacant room…

“Finally,” Bellac sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

Arno was sitting on a spare pillow with his back against a disheveled bookshelf next to a dead fireplace. A chest of sorts rested by his feet and a letter in his hand. He was reading it (or rather staring at it merely), unbothered of our entrance.

Bellac didn’t waste time to enter, his steps intimidating as he stood beside our temerarious trainee, “Boy, we’ve been looking all over the damn place for you.”

The upbraided Arno…remained stoic. Torpid in his movements. And ignored Bellac.

**Reminds you of someone…doesn’t it?**

“Bellac…” I entered the space, and stood beside, “…Let me talk to him.”

"What?" Bellac threw me a disbelieving look, but one look at Dorian's direction had his eyes rolling, throwing a hand back, "You get ten minutes."

“Twenty,” I corrected. He challenged me for a moment, but relented and flicked a hand. Once he was gone and out of earshot did I turn to Arno. He still fiddled with the parchment. I took the seat next to him, sighing when I rested my back against the book shelf as well. I reached up to remove the cowl, feeling the cold air of the manor cling to my neck. Gently did I address Arno with my arms on my bent knees.

“We have to talk.” He ignored me, but a strain expression overtook the edges of his eyes.

“Bellac informed me what he told you,” I tried again. When he said nothing, “Bellac wanted to tell you sooner….but I was against it. In truth: I don’t think it would’ve boded well if you had known your father’s killer was lurking around…but with everything that happened, I question whether that had been the right decision or not.”

“……Were you ever going to tell me?” he battled through his words.

“One day, when you were ready.”

He grew upset at this, and snapped lowly, “And when was that?”

“…The day when you stop running away, Arno.”

“I’m not running away, I never run away,” he offered me a pointed glare. Pink, wet.

“You need to face your fears—“

“And there you go again,” he scoffed almost painfully, tossing his folded parchment down and crossing his arms defensively against his chest. “Lecturing me, _always_. No no, you’re here to berate me over squandering everything you or Bellac have tried to instill in me since I've _joined_ the Assassins. Or what happened with James, right? **Right?**" his cracked voice rose.

“...No.” I answered, watching Arno battle internally with himself, especially when he shut his eyes. “We want to understand you. But we can’t if you don’t let us—”

"How can I when I've been belittled or entirely ignored or constantly told to be careful of what I've been trying to do!" He threw his arm forward at this, "_’What are you doing, pisspot_?! ‘_Your zeal leaves much to the imagination_’, ‘_I don't think he cares much about the orders than his personal vendetta_’, ‘_Do I look like a **joke** to you_??’ Just...." he frowned deeply, his shoulders dropping, "..._’Don't get in trouble, all right_’?"

“....Arno....” I let the moment pass, allowing him to retract his arm again. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t accept this.

I exhaled, “In truth…I could have done a better job to instruct you. To teach you…but you reminded me so much of my younger self sometimes…I tried everything I could to make you change, to make you _better _than who I used to be.” My eyes glided to the ground, and only then did Arno flicker his gaze to me from the corner of his eye. “I had a mentor once before; he was harsh, and I would always end up crying whenever we fought. He didn’t understand me; my emotions, my goals, my reasons for joining the Brotherhood….and despite how much he changed at the end of our journey, it doesn’t excuse the way he treated me in the beginning. I…I couldn’t move on from the pain in my life, it was just too much for me to bear…and—“ I inhaled sharply, my fingers pushing my hair back away from my eyes, “…Just because terrible things happened to me…doesn’t mean I should inflict them on someone else. And for that…I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough to avoid all of this.”

He fixed himself in his position, silent and observant. I looked to him once more, despite him looking away again, “I’ll try to do better. You don’t have to forgive me.”

"...I went after Shay because he..." Arno drew out after a couple minutes of silence, his digits curling into fists, "He...was invited by the coup that killed _de la Serre_, and now he’s after my sister. They were all there...and he struck them down…then—“ he chuckled out angrily at this, and the tears failed to remain repressed, “—I find out that he killed my father, _decades_ later?? Bellac throwing that in my face like I **_knew_**??”

“……You’re right. He shouldn’t have told you like that.” This made him pause, but he dared not to look at me. "...You went to James...because you felt comfortable telling him. Is that right?"

Arno took a moment, "...Yes."

"...I don't blame you for what happened. What happened to your father, to your step-father, to James.....none of it was your fault," I replied.

"........How can you say that?" He sounded distraught, confused even, "If I hadn’t left, I still would’ve been with my father! If I had delivered the letter to _de la Serre _like I was told—if it wasn't for me, James would probably still—!"

“Perhaps he still would’ve been, they all could’ve been alive,” I finished, and seeing him slouch his shoulders at this. “But you would’ve been dead.”

His legs slumped down to extend fully out in front of him, “…Maybe it would’ve been best—“

“No that’s not true—” my hand gripped at his shoulder, and his eyes shot to it in surprise.

He gritted his teeth, “I heard what James’ uncle told you, how he…..how he practically yelled at your face when in truth, it was all _my _fault!” His orbs rose, meeting my unhooded face.

I shook my head, “Listen to me, Arno. No matter what anyone else says, whether it be Bellac, Clement or Stephen, the Council…..James saved you because he believed in _you_. Don’t throw that away. Don’t think about what would’ve happened if it was _you_.”

"But w-why, out of everyone, would **_you_** be the one to defend me?" Arno was breathless, eyes searching urgently at mine, "How could you say you understand?!”

“I’ve had many loved ones die for me…I wish…” My fingers dug slightly as I straightened up, “I wish it weren’t like this. I wish I could go back and change everything in my life, or even be bold to say I wish I never existed. But…in doing so…”

I scoffed lightly, gazing to the Dorian who paused in his breath. Waiting.

“Do you think your fathers would’ve wanted you to have died? That James would have wanted you to take his place?”

"....No..." he dropped his head at this and dug his fingers in his pants.

“Then…” I stood up at this, and held out my hand to him. “Together, we will stop Shay. You don’t have to trust me, but allow me to understand you, and your feelings.”

Arno’s shimmering eyes widened at this, and finally did the crack emerge on his face. He bowed his head away from view, his locks shielding his freed tears. He stifled a sob, pressing a fist to his knee and sucked in a breath.

“Courage, Arno. Have courage!”

_Courage, my boy._

He steeled himself and rose from his seat, wiping his wet cheeks with the back of his wrist. With his other did he take my hand.

"I will...for everyone's sake....for I am an Assassin." He vowed with a determined nod, and tightened his hold on me, "And I will honor and protect those that still stand with me."

I nodded back with a confident smile, “And I will be right behind you.”


End file.
